The House with the Yellow Door

This poem is about my Grandparent's house in the Lake District (UK)


 

The yellow door at the top of the hill

Don’t ask the number,

I just remember the door.

Wipe my feet as I enter

Greyhounds bounding down the stairs

Straight out back as the birds soar.


Kitchen to the left – sun reflecting

On the orange-covered cupboards

Holding matched cups and saucers;

Ushered upstairs by ghosts – creaking as I go

The pictures that litter the walls

Taken by enthusiastic walkers.


Photos of the hills outside,

Tapestries done by hand,

Tiny figurines stand on the sideboard

As if waiting for us to leave or to dust them;

To rearrange or to make sure

A teddy bear seems to nod in accord


The brightly coloured furniture stands

Low, saggy, imprinted

With the pungent smells of oldness

Coldness and emptiness surrounds

Only memories and despair

Surrounding the house and withholds


The rolling mountains outside lead me to wonder

The secrets yet to be found

Hidden within the house –

The house with the yellow door.


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