The Hoarder

The fire burnt you out,

You and your earthly trove,

In madness the curated lot,

The sundry items that you strove

To stack and set and lay just right,

And ageing pieces got,

All - the brooding flames engorged,

A private Armageddon wrought

In the lodgings of your mind.

Next day, the ancient frame

Stood curious in a gibbet light,

Indifferent to your fought-for,

Seared remains of friends,

For if the ends

Do matter in such a lament,

In your limitless game,

Though we see not the thread,

Nor the way the mind is bent,

We should bear such gifts,

And so, on coming together,

Float them down,

Your ashen river.