Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

There is moss growing in the bedrooms
of my grandfather’s house.
Green and sticky, staining the walls
and the floor with shades of the sea.
They climb, tracing intricate patterns, around
brown squares, where pictures used to hang.

The roof has fallen in. Water stagnates
on a cushioned floor as disturbed bats circle,
drawing the night in. The rooms are empty
of all that was him. The doors have been locked
warped and unwilling to open onto
a tomorrow which does not contain him.

It is six o’clock and the mosquitos
gather noisily in rooms that once
smelt of sweet margosa leaves.
They are the music makers, the sum total
of our dreams. The inheritors of rooms
that reek and sweat in angry dismay.

There is moss growing in the bedrooms
of my grandfather’s house and raindrops
sing a lament on deserted floors.