I walked into an empty house
with no pictures on the wall
it had a velveteen coat of dust
where ever it would fall
there was a broken spindle
setting quiet in one room
with tiny threads of cobwebs
wrapped around it in full bloom
a haze lay gentle in the air
with a perfume of aging wood
and the floors sang of mystery
where other men once stood
every room was papered
with its layers on display
peeling back and exposing
the many patterns of its day
risers groaned beneath me
as I traversed up the stairs
with a banister now stripped
of its occasional wares
I looked out of the window
with its trim of faded stain
through the layered silt
that gathered on each pane
below I saw a swing set
where children used to play
standing still and silent
as it slowly rusts away
the tenants are long gone
and there is little left at all
except for distant echoes
of the footsteps in the hall
John R Tarter
J