Walk Gently Stranger Poem by Thomas Golding

This old house is sad
Reflecting the flow
Of the itinerant folk
Who gave it life
But didn’t care enough
To stop it aging.

Layers of paper
Palimpsests on the walls
Still life recordings
Furniture scraped
Overlays of hope
Each generation cries
Here we lived I and i.
Listen with your hand
Against the door
Pale voices of children
May be heard
A memory for old house
To play when lonely.

Near the floor by the window
A girl sobs without hope
Of comfort or release
Yet over there
She cries with passion.
This concerned passerby
Would reach out if he could
No being should be so alone.

Will the new residents be kind to my little house?
Will they be kind to my little ghost?
No more time for contemplation
Only leave whatever comfort may be willed
Awaiting entropy that thief of time
Whose step grinds all to dust
Bidding ephemeral all fear
Cause effect and pain
No time at all in the unending round.