Progress
There once was a house up on that hill.
Just a stones throw away from the old saw mill.
It stood so tall, majestic and bold
with tales and fond memories waiting to be told.
Four generations had called it their home.
Most born by a fireplace handmade from stone.
Reared with firm hands in comfort with care,
I'll bet they ate lunch somewhere right over there.
The walls were all painted in yellows and blues.
There was an old woodstove once thought of as new.
Many a night voices echoed from the porch
beneath a dimly lit lamp from a brass antique torch.
Quite often the house was filled with music and glee.
No doubt in my mind it was really something to see.
There were laughter and tears, hearts mended and broken. T
Times of sorrows and joy though rarely spoken.
Oh I swear if that house had two eyes and could speak,
the tales it would tell of all it had seen.
But we'll never know. No unfortunately not.
For now it's a Safeway with a huge parking
lot.
Copyright © Mark Croson The Applethoughtrotten | Year Posted 2010
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