Plants grow from the shingles
Tiny roots and fuzzy moss
Cling to watery edges
The green fighting the gold
Of the once majestic temple
Empty roads with jutted pavers
Now abandoned by its mason
The earth invading what is hers
Stones crumble to sand
Is there a witness to this demise?
An old man shuffles alone
Head bent like a sunflower
And a sole pail swinging in hand
He stubbornly heaves the gate
Revealing what’s not yet a memory
A painting bright with fury
Refusing to disappear with the rest
The partisan approaches the wall
Fresh paint glistening as his brush
Strokes the dragon awake
This poem is for #NaPoWriMo, prompt for Day 1. My inspiration is my visit to Beiping in 2013, the old Northern Capital that you can still visit but is noticeably deteriorating. It was a stark contrast to the new temples where there were people with mortar repairing bricks or artists repainting columns in every plaza.
K M Hasling 