The Old House

Glory Days

Ah yes, they say if walls could talk. Oh, to hear
what these old walls would tell. Volumns I would say.
Can you see the children playing in the yard?
Their laughter like tinkling bells. They are so
young, as once this old house was. What? is
that a plume of smoke coming from the
chimney, which now has crumpled down upon itself?
Ah, the aroma, let me think, oh yes, venison
stew, perhaps with carrots, onions and a few potatoes.
Mother is out back doing laundry, again!
Where's Dad? Chopping wood I would surmise, again!
A luxury, these gleaming glass windows, which
are no more. Look, there are ducks in the pond,
bobbing, swimming playfully without a care.
The hay has been harvested, I can smell it's
earthiness. How lovely, the purple sage which
seems to have over ridden this old place.
I see the kind old stallion behind the weathered
wooden fence, and just beyond his now vintage
stable. They called him Fella, I think.
I see the sunlight playing off the old pine tree.
I can smell the clean, crispness of it, a dash of
green in a now otherwise gray and brown palatte.
Now I hear the rain pattering on the old tin roof,
did you really shine once?
Can you feel the love? It lingers here, not forgotten.
Ah, this cabin, standing alone, a sentinel to memory of Home.
Where have they all gone, is there no one left to care?
What are you then? A House? Could be now,
But then..... A Home.

© ABBA