This house was once full of music

but now it’s a place
where dead melodies pepper
the dirty bone-white sills
like dried out bluebottles.

No one creaks down its corridors
to boil up milk in the middle of the night.
No one opens the shutters in the morning
to feed it light.
The floorboards no longer gossip.

Desiccated moths and spiders
powder its lintels.
Its cupboards are pockets for rot.

It longs for ghosts or stray cats,
an implant of pulse,
some breath to lift its dust,
a string of bats to bead its rafters.
It longs for the old tunes
to crawl back home,
to drag themselves
over its crusty threshold
like tired toads.


~ by Gaia Holmes on April 3, 2012.

One Response to “This house was once full of music”

  1. The reminds me of a poem by my wife, Ethel, about how an old couple brought an old house back to life. By personifying this house you tell us about the poet, the longing for beauty, the longing for bringing back cupboards that are pockets of rot. Again, this has wonderful language. I am impressed by the poetry I’ve been reading here. I’m going to have to think about the work you are presenting.

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