I AM leaving this old house,
Creeping from it like a mouse,
This house, where my mother died
And the rooms, where with pride
I hung pictures on the wall
And wiped my feet within the hall ;
Everything has a familiar touch,
I know it is nothing much,
One can do it, without any tears,
Leave the place you’ve loved for years.
The van will come for its load
And I shall set off down the road
And leave this old house
Like a creeping mouse.
There is no room for sentiment.
Away with such futile grief,
Here the railings are ancient and bent,
There they are new beyond belief
And the locks will turn with keys.
And the doors will really close,
And the pipes cannot freeze
And no one knows
What unsuspected details I shall find
To please my sentimental mind.
Discoveries that will beget
Content where now is regret.
There is no room for sentiment,
Yet my thoughts are backwards bent,
Leaving this old house
Like a creeping mouse,
The house, with the room inside,
Where my mother died.
(Bernard Waters)
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