Every footfall echoes, now.
The cold fireplace sits,
politely, tidily, waiting.
The kitchen looks like a photo shoot,
No cups or crumbs or cats
To leave muddy paw prints
and sneak the butter.
Where is my home, If not here?
Where it waited for me,
where it had always been,
from the first.
Would that I could pack it
in a fragile taped box,
Or secret it away in my pocket
and steal it
from the lucky new occupants.
My leaving is of no concern
to this ancient house,
1826, carved above the door,
I turn the key
And drop it through the letterbox.
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | February 15, 2010 - 14:23
I think this has to be my favourite of yours, Shirley. Went back yesterday to a house up until 9 years ago, we lived in for eighteen years. It too was an old house and we popped by to give the present (new) owners, some ancient documents, etc. pertaining to it.
It was a strange feeling and I can so identify with this poem.
Really enjoyed.
Tina;-)
shoe | February 15, 2010 - 14:35
Thanks Tina, this is the first time I've tried to write about "my" house, pleased you liked it and related, means a lot to me,:~}
MistakenMagic | February 15, 2010 - 15:08
I love the images in the first two stanzas, Shirley! Lovely personification and a wondeful, warm feeling throughout - although there is that slight edge of sadness. I agree with Tina, definitely one of my favourites of yours ;)
Magic xxx
kheldar | February 16, 2010 - 00:38
Beautiful and poignant, love this one Shirley.
David :--) xx
shoe | February 16, 2010 - 11:39
Thanks Magic, if only the muddy paw prints were imaginary! and at present my fire it burning merrily if not tidily,
shoe | February 16, 2010 - 11:47
Pleased you like this one David, "my" house certainly captured my heart and part of it still resides there.
hope it doesn't make a nuisance of itself!