A Poem a Day (602): The inn

  
The inn
 
It breathes, bereft of slumber,
turns its glass eyes to the moon,
closes both doors, seals itself off.
 
Dust mites nibble the open pages
of the only book ever to be read.
So many tales left untold.
 
Fiery last embers crumble to ashes
and a cold draft lances through,
trips up the stairs two at a time.
 
Outside, a long-lost dog howls,
thankful for the scraps on the step,
listens to winter’s chill settle in.
 
Brick and mortar glues it all,
on top a tiled hat sits askew,
offers a cosy nest for the crows.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 1, 2023