David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
The week after the funeral the house was cleared
Memories taken to the auctioneers to be sold off,
The polished sideboard and dining room table,
The picture frames now empty of smiling faces.
Treasures collected and stored over fifty years.
Memories now fading, scattered to the four winds.
Only ghosts remain.
Now the house is empty and a for sale sign hangs
From the bedroom window as the cold winters chill
Blows freely through the house into empty rooms
Once full of laughter. The scratches on the bottom
Of the door where the dog would scratch. One day new
Memories will fill the house but until then the house
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