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Old House near Stockbridge |
The Old House
I came upon it quite by chance,
On a cold fall afternoon.
The gray skies hanging overhead
Had reduced the day to gloom.
There was a path worn around it,
Through brush and tall brown grass.
I pondered for a moment,
Was this from the present or the past.
The siding gray and cracking,
Things were hanging at the seams.
Vines entangled around the roof,
And wound around the beams.
Did I hear a whisper?
Perhaps it’s just the wind,
Though it seems to be some voices
From the past, but then again.
All my senses tell me
That it’s the vacant haunting sound
Of memories, both good and bad,
This house their burying ground.
As I gaze off the old front step,
I picture lilies by the door,
With the creaking of a rocking chair
On the cracked and buckling floor.
Do I hear children’s laughter
Wafting up the hill?
Alas, it’s just the wind again,
Coming through the sills.
The hour grows late, I hate to leave,
For you’re so empty and alone.
But I must travel to another house,
The one I call my Home.
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