On Leaving The House For The Very Last Time Poem by Not Long Left

As I close the door for the very last time
I hear the sounnd of creaking metal grind.
The rubbing of the wood upon the floor
Sounds of which I shall hear no more.

Shutting behind me an endless past
Leaving fingerprints upon the glass,
heavy with memories, these feet linger with each step
past the place my schoolfriends and I each morning met.

Turning back I face the time defying tree
when once scaled the Canary wharf I could see
Until Mother caught sight and shouted me down
with promises of punisment and a motherly frown.

Through the curtainless windows I peek through
scanning empty rooms I shall never again step into
How queer they seem when stripped and bare
It was as if we was never there.

'Sold' says the sign at the end of the drive
Yet within the walls our times are alive.
The blowing of the Birthday Candle,
The silence when asked who broke the handle

The Tears shed when Grandma passed away
The morning frenzy on Christmas days
Within those walls shall those times go
Whether there shall be more I do not know.

Down the street past the old sweet shop
where we would line our pockets with sweets until they'd drop,
Up the neverending steep steep street
Past the Jones's whose garden is still so neat.

Till the house is but an image fading from sight
A street light dying in the dead of night.
Round the corner then finnally it is gone
But little old house within my heart you live on.