A single curtainless window, illuminates the dark panelled hall,
the grandfather clock in a corner, standing elegant and tall,
A black Bakelite phone sits on a white marble stand,
the only furniture remaining, in this house once so grand.
The phone starts to ring, the clock gently chimes,
like a maid sounding a dinner gong, its telling us the time.
Footsteps echo around, the grand corridor,
treading heavily on, the highly polished oak floor.
The wind starts to howl, and rain is beating down,
branches and leaves are falling, onto the sodden ground.
Decorative shutters rattle, their rusty hinges squeak,
the light fading rapidly as the storm reaches its peak.
The hall is in darkness, apart from the marble base
the phone has stopped ringing, and footsteps start to fade.
This house so full of character, has only hours to live,
years of pleasure and enjoyment, that it still can surely give.
But the final morning comes, and all the charges are set,
the clock starts to chime, as if paying its last respect.
People start to gather, to say goodbye to this grand old house,
modern apartments cant replace, a house so full of grace.
The plunger depressed, the old house starts to fall,
as dust starts to settle, you can hear a workman call.
Everything has fallen, everything raised to the ground,
everything but the black Bakelite phone, sitting proudly on its stand.
© Richard Veal. 3rd October 2010.