Old House – Poetry

Old House

By J. A. Weymouth

These nights are a high inside old buildings as their mortality weakens

they wake to a sadness, a persistent depression of red oak, soaked

in laughter.

Laughter is the memory.

What childhood lies here?

Chalk litters the corner of two rooms.  Simple.

And the hallways are riddled with hooks and screws.

Stains of an aged dust outlines particular squares on its walls while

Mother draws back the curtain.

Sunlight is emitted as the house reawakens.

Only to realise it is empty.

But nothing is empty.

Memories are pressed like flower petals in a book.

The book is still here

remembering.

9 thoughts on “Old House – Poetry

    • Thank you for taking the time to comment. Yes, there is something terribly beautiful about the life of old homes and how they echo memories in their shallow state.

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