DYING OF SHAME
The old house was empty, cold and very still,
No lights shone warmly over the windowsill,
No one ever knocked on the wooden door,
No one ever cleaned that lovely red tiled floor.

The large garden was overgrown with weeds,
The bird feeder was long bereft of any seeds,
Many seasons of leaves covered the ground,
A more derelict house was not to be found.

Did it sigh in sorrow : did it moan in pain?
Did it want a loving family inside once again?
Can the heart of a house really and truly break,
Can the walls, floors and strong beams ache?

It was big and very old, maybe very drafty too,
Many large rambling rooms to wander through,
A huge kitchen with a vast old fashion range,
I felt a feeling of shame in there that was strange.

If we bought the house the work would be immense,
The price was right, to buy made real common sense,
But could we find out why the house felt such shame,
To get to the bottom of it before we bought was our aim.

A neighbour came and told us a man was murdered there,
No one wants to make it a home, so it stands cold and bare,
No wonder we felt the shame of the house had felt so long,
We would buy it and fill the home with love’s sweet song.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson November 12, 2003