The House That Was Forgot! Poem by Sandra Kavanagh Josefsson

Slowly I climbed the staircase,
and admired the balusters carved by trained hands,
The joinery was so meticulously done,
From the little buds of flowers,
To the angels hair, their strands.

And everything was quiet, except for the occasional squeak from the floorboards.
The carpet had frayed here and there.
The windows with their stained glass,
had splintered and their broken pieces lay bare.

The rain had got in and done its damage.
The wallpaper had come away from its walls.
A picture on the stairway displayed
someone, I presumed, who once walked these halls.

Sometimes I imagined that I heard someone calling out.
There was a coldness in the building,
an eeriness all about.

When I looked up at the ceiling,
in parts I could see the sky.
The birds would sing on the rooftops,
the clouds went slowly by.

There were many rooms to visit
and each had a character of their own.
They held memories of their previous owners
and all their dreams that had once being sown.

Like the sewing box on the table beside a window to give some light,
while a seamtress put the last pieces of lace together on a dress of material so slight.

Or the bowler hat hanging on the end of the bedstand.
Or the walking stick with its carved wooden handle.
Waiting there patiently for its owner to return.
Did not matter how many years would burn.

And then to the overgrown garden, which had started to take over the house.
The statues were covered in ivy,
And here and there I saw a mouse.

But there was also roses, red as ruby lips,
And hyacinths of all colours,
their aroma did much to lift.

Here it stood the house that was forgot.
Its ghostly inhabitants did not care.
They continued as they have always done,
Come and visit if you dare!

Verse: Sandra Kavanagh 20220109