On the edge of the cliff, the estate agent stood with despair at the task he had been set.
In the heart of the forest, his task stood,
Long since left behind by the family that had built it up from the ground.
All the love and moments now left in a rotting box, both in ground and thrust into the sky.
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The house that had been left behind by its final owner,
An elderly man with a limp. Now also residing within his own box.
Oddly, he had left the house when he was a young boy,
And only returned during the autumn of each year when he grew older.
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Wonder filled the estate agent while he took in the cracking brickwork,
The sealed windows and the propped shut door.
Curiosity set deep within his heart at something so old and so real,
And so, he went to inspect the house that stood in the woods.
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Once inside, he felt like an intruder, an outsider.
The furniture was not his own, it did not fit to his tastes,
Yet it was to someone else’s taste. It was someone’s life at one point.
It was their whole life. Someone had bought it, someone had been born with it.
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And now he was intruding. There was history here.
A family history that permeated the creaky walls of this house.
The house had been here long before everything else.
And now it was time to leave.
Fox Writing 