Old House & Home
- Creative  Writing to Inspire -

As a freckle-star tumbled from the heavens, the little house nestled upon the onyx hill. It glowed amid the black of that abandoned mine. Broken slates were its daffodils. Rusted engines whistled in wintry winds. Whipped dust was its only confidant. I saw it from the city, aglow and yet alone. Legends are born in such places, far from the madding crowds. So one day, backpack snug to my shoulders, I made the climb with fullest-heart. Then there it was, a humble concrete dwelling, white painted, cherry window sills and blackest asphalt door. Sunsetting, a hearth fire flickering life into window panes, I raised my hand in request of entrance.

April 27, 2025.

​

A smile of daffodils curved around the old house as it basked in spring light. The bold dayshine made its colours so petal-bright. Its orange door trumpeted warmth as its primrose walls sang of comfort. Its well established beams, long ago ensconced in strong walls reached tall into the rafters, where this year buzzed busy honey bees. The entire roof it seemed was their ambition, honeycomb from end to end.

September 20, 2025.

​

Beneath a clear night, a night of stars that shone so merry, sat the old house. Weathered yet strong, sun softened hues rested in moonlit greys. The owls a-hoot, the mice a-scurry, it chattered on with the woodland trees - such bonhomie until sun up! The darkness scared it not, you see, because it had seen seasons galore. Sure, it was winter. Sure, it was dark. Yet what of it? Warmth returns. Light rises. Coldness always gets its marching orders in the end.

September 20, 2025.

​

The old house is a lament of yesteryears. Rain trickles into painted cracks, robbing strength that can never come back. Beams rot. Hinges sad-creak. Window panes rattle in bowing frames. Nails rust. Furnishings slump. Tattered curtains thin to a misery of rags. Beneath storms that fill the sky with low bruised clouds, that rain cold and long, it surrenders dreams with fists unraised. It no longer dreams of happier days. Birdsong it ignores. Rainbows it will not see. It holds fast to depression and gravity as collapsing destiny.

September 20, 2025.

​

Fanged icicles suffocated the sagging beams of that old house. Paint blistered and flaked from window frames and doors. Surrounded by overgrown trees, trees that leaned and loomed, even in daylight it existed in grim darkness, in grim solitude. Some say it whispered to the mean wind, meaner things than even a bad wind can bear, that evil spirits skulked its dank and dismal rooms. Spiders and rats were in residence, as were roaches and maggots. Even the shadows flinched on approach, and moonlight took an avoidant path.

September 20, 2025.

​
 

Home’s Stone Steps
Stone step rivulets borne of Lady Spring,
Water bright as high Elven-light,
Moss mobbing as merriest crowd doth cling,
Aeons story by stonemason playwright,
Legend’s glory in honest humble craft,
Shadow and shade as scroll-less tavern bard,
Floral arbors bequeath Aroma’s draft,
Mouse dreams pitter-patter in cool dawn-guard,
Minerals swirl as Ancient of Day’s art,
As Stargazer’s true clock and strongest sights,
Storing T-Rex roars as castle rampart,
Shines forest dapples as Christmas tree-lights,
Invites Camelot souls to rise from gloam,
Tread stone-steps to oak-door of royal home.
*****
May 26, 2026, Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems, Collection One.

​