Demolition Work

Through meshed wire
we see the rectangles
of exposed foundations
where small strong buildings
once stood.
Bare earth
with traces of brick
and tiled flooring
open to the sky.
A broken, partly plastered, rear wall
still stands.

People once worked here;
they thought
and talked
and laughed here.
They came here daily
and stood where now
the earth is scarred
and birds alone
employ themselves
scavenging among the ruins.

It's all so familiar.
The demolishers have been.
The future has
brushed aside the past.
On this site, in due time,
some office block will rise
and take its place
in the crowded skyline
of our city.
It's a commonplace.
Our urban surgeons
perform these
cosmetic feats daily.

But, even so, I'm troubled.
Troubled
not by the absence
of the familiar,
for these buildings
meant nothing to me;
troubled by the impermanence.
This vacant block,
this earthly blemish
on the city's proud face,
plucks the mortar from my life
and writes 'condemned'
on every wall.

The exposed foundations
are mine
and I tremble.

Bruce Smith