I'm not selling

This house is a happy house, its foundations
solid. The wind blows through
from front to back ,oh!
and the sun shines in the afternoons
upon the garden.
It’s not grand, but it has riches within
you can’t put a value on; from that window
watch the oaks,
they dress in the seasons’ colours,
every year growing more glorious ,
offering their refuge of quiet sanctuary.
Out of his window, from his bed
my teenage son likes to contemplate;
Gazing upon their loveliness, what better way
to end the day and enter the night?

And during daylight hours, it is here all life
explodes. This room, an expanse of light
and space holds room for all our brood. It
brims with noise, Warcraft warriors
entertain on line, accompanied
by electric guitar rehearsed
around the clock, and football plays
in the background,
Outbursts of pleasure and pain;
the sounds of the nation echoing in my lounge;
the boys are watching the beautiful game.
A goal is scored, and limbs appear everywhere,
overflowing with delight, jumping over chairs, out
and out into the garden, shrieking and shouting
with mirth. The glass sun house, weathered and
smashed by balls gone astray still stands,
if a little tremulously, more fitted to a family
more decorous than ours.
It needs to come down, and no doubt will, if
not by design, then by accident.
All things must pass.

These walls and doors and windows, all are solid,
but time is not. This house is a happy house,