Dark House

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892)

Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street.

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand.

A hand that can be clasped no more –

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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