Black Iron Gates

looking through the huge black iron gates, across the ferns and overgrown weeds, our old family house looked at us lovingly, like we were children coming back to old granny, withering white paint on porch window, like a patched up dress that lost its glow, the door creaked as the wind rustled past, wrecked and hanging like a flag in half mast, our old childhood memory beckoned us in, mum’s old kitchen with rusting biscuit tin! gaps in slated roof for Sun to shine through, home like a drifting ship without a crew, is father standing at the top of the staircase? or just an old fond wish, that we could see his face? a wide crack ran across the rosette ceiling, like it was showing its scar asking for healing! the garden looked blank like it had forgotten us, still held some broken bulbs from our Christmas! ebbing tears made the hearth look fuzzy, sobbing whispers as we all huddled as family! this was the place we all grew up to be loved, stood an orphan with no love bestowed! 2nd placement Decaying House poetry contest Sponsor Constance LaFrance Date written 18/07/2020