The House Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The House
Our house was ancient, mould and cracking plaster
Time, dry rot, wear and tear had worn it out
Its framework, a Victorian disaster.

My father wasn't one to yield or fluster
Though old, he repaired gutters, leaking spout
He'd turn his hand to trades most couldn't master.

But still, down in the founds, the walls grew danker
And Age, to him, brought heart disease and gout
I'd hear him wheeze, rub aching knees and stagger

This house will see me out, you'd hear him mutter
Replacing broken tiles, renewing grout
Make do & mend, his motto: Fate's forecaster

And then death felled him. Skin like alabaster
The undertakers' men carried him out
Within the month, his clocks began to falter.

Sold as a shell, first Rentokil, sandblaster
Sparkies tore at its guts, shrubs pruned without
The house rose like a phoenix, grand in splendour,
And as for his repairs, there is no doubt
They kept us cosy his lifetime throughout