Here is a poem I wrote when I was in my teens, some time after visiting a house where a widower had recently passed away. It got me thinking about how the house must have once been full of laughter and memories, and now it was to be sold on to a new owner who would have no comprehension of what had come before.
The house was only emptied of its soul a week before,
But even now the creeping dust invades upon the
Celluloid memories that lay within the confines of
The shelves that stand erect like prisoners, condemned to death.
The air, which whirled vibrant and fresh around its many rooms
Just days ago, is now stifled by the past that lays
Etched amongst the gaudy patterns of the walls and floors
And, in its eerie way, can almost be seen and touched.
In the garden, once a proud ambassador of colour,
The ground now looks bare and bleak, without its character,
As the weeds mill and throb around the smooth white sign that now
Commands the house, like a dispassionate dictator.
Not only now has its owner died, but also the hope
That stirred and mingled within its bounds and gave it life,
Yet sometimes we have to stand back and understand that
One day, with new hearts and memories, it will be re-born.