Unbuilding

Have you ever been up a mountain rich in old ruins, 

castles or shepherd huts? I’m talking old-old, like centuries. 

You will have noticed, winding your way through prickly gorse,

the square-shaped stones parading as rock. 

Slowly, over the course of time and wind and rain, 

the stones will have come loose like milk teeth,

hanging on by just a fleshy piece of ivy.

One winter storm will have given them the last kick;

far from sight, they wandered off in that slow downhill way

of stones. A hundred years later, you come across a half-tower. 

Another hundred years, and some other person

sees only foundations outlined in short grass.

Love unbuilds like a castle. When one love ends, it remains, 

just as before, mortar and stone. It needs centuries of neglect 

before beginning to loosen, soften at the edges

and roll away piece by piece. Some of its parts will become

unrecognisable: what boyfriend did I take to the Canary Islands? 

Foundations will always be asking to sprout, hoping for fresh weight. 

Sometimes, I want to pick up the cold, heavy bodies of stones,

carry them uphill, sweat pouring down my thighs,

and thud them back into their rightful place. 

Straighten up with a hand on my back, take in the view. 

But these ancient constructions belong to the past, dark ages

now turned bright. Nobody lives here anymore.