I love pictures of old houses, they often spur something in my imagination. This one, an old Victorian in Port Jervis New York, inspired a poem.
The house we built
Was a lofty place full of drafts.
The rooms filled to capacity-
armchairs with tatted amacasters,
ribbon candy in milk glass
The bed cloaked in eiderdown
embellished with lace
and a hint of rosewater
Yellow suns grew
n kitchen wallpaper,
cheery as the bread
we baked on winter afternoons
Dust motes dance over the windows
and cobwebs lace corners.
The polish is gone from the floor
The pipes are rusted
and the faucet drip drips
a complaint
The rooms echo
with the footfall of years
left behind-
like the trace of cologne
on the collar of the only shirt
still hanging in the closet
Like the wedding photograph
on the nightstand-
a soft sepia imprint time worn and faded .
The house we built
Was a lofty place full of drafts.
The rooms filled to capacity-
armchairs with tatted amacasters,
ribbon candy in milk glass
The bed cloaked in eiderdown
embellished with lace
and a hint of rosewater
Yellow suns grew
n kitchen wallpaper,
cheery as the bread
we baked on winter afternoons
Dust motes dance over the windows
and cobwebs lace corners.
The polish is gone from the floor
The pipes are rusted
and the faucet drip drips
a complaint
The rooms echo
with the footfall of years
left behind-
like the trace of cologne
on the collar of the only shirt
still hanging in the closet
Like the wedding photograph
on the nightstand-
a soft sepia imprint time worn and faded .
RSS Feed
