Silence Befalls This Home Now

Looking through the bookshelves, a homemade book, he chose Found trapped within the pages he came upon a faded red rose Flatten down with care now faded in colour, more so in its scent Memories such of a time, so long ago that to himself only it lent It came from a happy home; a home, cherished, made with love Every crevice packed with loving items and, fitting all like a glove With a garden full of noises with songbirds they did forever sing On these evenings roll calls scents from the flowers so often ling All crafted; by a man to perfection, all made, to the one he loved Not once another person, nor idol to his wife, did ever set above There was nothing he wouldn’t do; to him, it was a toll well spent To share with his fair maiden; who was to him, truly heaven sent Their home a range of seductive aromas as a good woman baked As scents of fresh green grass cut that he meaningful then raked A garden and a home once filled with laughter with children galore With a hollow sadness, wasn't that some sixty-five years or more Silence befalls this home, now except; for the creaking of the gate No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate The old man; now restful in his chair, the book between his hands Memories as forgotten now remembered he now fully understands His weary sunken eyes slowly closing; are about, to open no more Over the rooftops, and, beyond the chestnut trees his spirit soars No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate Silence befalls this home, now except for; the creaking of the gate Indiana Shaw . . . -_-