the house

Houses have been personalised throughout literary history and the poem below is to deflect my own emotions onto the family house that is now empty.

the house lies quietly, waiting,
the polished wooden floor, cold,
missing the warmth of her footsteps;
the airy space of the hallway
empty, no welcoming arms
 to embrace

the house lies alone, listening to
voiceless clocks , silent  piano keys,
bare walls in cavernous rooms
catching only echoes
of forgotten family laughter

the house lies displaced , crying
tears on  rain washed windows;
autumn leaves lie stripped of colour,
grey mist muffles the call of rooks
and the silence remains unbroken