THE OLD HOUSE
Dark and dour was the old house built on the rugged coast,
As if it were haunted by some long forgotten lonely ghost,
The wind howled and the waves roared so very close by,
But the house stood firm and strong never wanting to die.
The old gate hung by one hinge, weeds stood very tall,
Yet there was comforting ivy growing on the south wall,
The door handle was brass, made of that should shine bright
And glisten in the sun and a door window to let in the light.
The handle turned, the door creaked, we both entered in,
We felt welcomed by waiting arms, almost like being kin,
Waiting, wanting, wishing us there with them to ever stay,
A home by the tempestuous sea maybe had come our way.
T’was built on a cliff, with three sides facing the deep sea,
A bright, warm beacon to toiling sailors it could ever be,
Glowing in the darkness, bring to many hope and light,
In the daytime it would be such a pleasing, welcome sight.
So why was it all empty with no one inside to really care?
Did something terrible happen, a sorrow beyond compare?
Could happiness and love return to this old home once again,
Or would it never heal from it’s deep hurt and cruel pain?
I do not think I will tell you what happened that on that day,
Whether we moved in or empty the sad house did stay,
Look into your heart and think about what you would do,
Then tell you own story of what then happened to you.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson September 9, 2005