I just thought I'd share with you all a poem that I wrote a couple of years back... Hopefully you like it!

 

'Those Who Went Before Us'

Come hither, into the home I once built - where, through every arch and doorway, a veil between the past and present beckons you forth, if only you care to notice.

The fireplace: built lovingly by my own hand, it's carvings still adorn it. Where I rested after a hard day's work, attended by my doting wife, and beside which we dried our clothes and warmed our aching bones in the harsh depths of winter.

The timbers: cut, nailed and measured by yours truly. Dark, heavy beams, upon which I gazed in dim candlelight during those nights when sleep eluded me, and beneath which my children were born and played.

The kitchen: my beloved wife's domain. Where hearty meals were lovingly prepared, and babes were bathed in a bath made of tin.

The bedroom: where two souls entwined, and where new lives - and the promise of tomorrow - were made.

The dining room: where food was eaten, ale was drank, conversations had aplenty, and decisions were made.

The garden: its vegetable patch tended with care, the tub and mangle fuelled by my wife's sweat and toil. The line where our linen basked beneath the sun's baking warmth. Where carpets were hung out and beaten, and the scent of lavender fills the air still. The scattered apples beneath the orchard trees - the fruits of our labour in times gone by.

Our blood seeps through the very walls, the ceilings and the window panes. Children's shrill laughter still echoes.

We are etched deep inside these bricks and stones, as are our memories - both good and bad.

Lives were hard, happiness a blessing, struggles abound - but love and laughter constant, and times were simpler somehow.

Now, I am long gone... But my little patch of land, and my home, still remain.

Though the fireplace is now bricked up, the kitchen modern, the bedroom decorated, the dining room extended, and the garden landscaped, the timbers and stones have stood the test of time.

Steadfast and defiant, though they may appear diminutive to the untrained eye, they still remain.

Whilst the world beyond the iron gate - forged by myself - has changed beyond all recognition, this little slice of Eden did not; not really.

And now, though I did not bequeath it, it is yours - a home for strangers, no kin of mine. But nonetheless, you are welcome.

I ask only that you think of me from time to time, and wonder what these walls could say, if only they could speak.

Ponder on those of us who roamed these narrow hallways, and climbed these cold stone steps before you.

Take care of our little home, and fill it with memories of your own making.

Remember that you are borrowing my life's work, the only thing I ever truly possessed and could call my own.

And if you hear a faint whisper, or light footsteps treading across the polished oak floor, do not be alarmed - for I am only dropping by.

Some say that a house is a dead thing, a corpse; but I disagree. The timbers still breathe, the walls see, and the stones feel.

This house still heaves with sighs, and cries out for the respect it has duly earned. It has weathered many a storm since my day, and has sheltered all who have crossed its threshold.

We still wander, traversing the veil between Then and Now, forever bound to this place.

If you treat the house nicely, you may be permitted to truly 'own' it, as once I did; and perhaps, if you be lucky, you too may earn your place amongst those of us who went before - an honour, to be sure.

~ Written by Karen Musilova, 2020.