This old house moves

When you’re not here.

Things go missing;

Then re-appear.

Naughty little teapot

Stood by the backdoor,

You don’t belong here,

I’ve told you this before.

And I’ll dust you down

Mr Wardrobe and Mrs Chair;

And I’ll close all the curtains

In case someone’s standing there;

Outside of my window

A man wants to come in

But he doesn’t say hello

Because he isn’t a friend.

He watches me move

And knocks hard and loud

To which I’ll creep and tip-toe

To another part of the house.

A pile waits for me

Of words, dates and lists;

For the ghost who gets there first,

For the ghost who doesn’t exist.

This back room is a mess,

It’s been like this for years;

You have to push past boxes

For a pathway to appear.

And that knocking shakes the walls,

Shakes windows and the air;

And when that knocking stops,

It’s hard to prove anyone’s there.

Because everything’s dead

Now that you’re not here;

And, each time you leave,

The silence comes; I disappear.


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