Silence Befalls This Home Now
Looking through the bookshelves, a homemade book, he chose
Found trapped within the pages he came upon a faded red rose
Flatten down with care now faded in colour, more so in its scent
Memories such of a time, so long ago that to himself only it lent
It came from a happy home; a home, cherished, made with love
Every crevice packed with loving items and, fitting all like a glove
With a garden full of noises with songbirds they did forever sing
On these evenings roll calls scents from the flowers so often ling
All crafted; by a man to perfection, all made, to the one he loved
Not once another person, nor idol to his wife, did ever set above
There was nothing he wouldn’t do; to him, it was a toll well spent
To share with his fair maiden; who was to him, truly heaven sent
Their home a range of seductive aromas as a good woman baked
As scents of fresh green grass cut that he meaningful then raked
A garden and a home once filled with laughter with children galore
With a hollow sadness, wasn't that some sixty-five years or more
Silence befalls this home, now except; for the creaking of the gate
No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate
The old man; now restful in his chair, the book between his hands
Memories as forgotten now remembered he now fully understands
His weary sunken eyes slowly closing; are about, to open no more
Over the rooftops, and, beyond the chestnut trees his spirit soars
No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate
Silence befalls this home, now except for; the creaking of the gate
Indiana Shaw . . . -_-
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