Sixty-five years <br />within this gardened home <br />dripping with peace, <br />and bird song, <br />hallowed with memories <br />of which I am ignorant, <br />blessed with lessons <br />I have yet to learn, <br />echoing with songs <br />I didn’t hear you sing, <br />thrilling to the laughter <br />of children’s voices down the years, <br />and happy barks long silenced <br />amid reverence and tears. <br /> <br />I am just an estate agent <br />buttering my daily bread <br />from the sale of your humble heritage <br /> <br />and you are just my clients <br />entrusted to me recently <br />but <br />the ambiance of a serene history <br />wafts through your house, <br />warming your walls inside and out, <br />touching your treasures with late afternoon light, <br />washing over your lush barefoot lawns <br />and bright nodding flower beds <br />and exuding welcome from the folds <br />of your faces both, <br /> <br />and I am honoured <br />and touched <br />by your charm <br />and the simple grace of your home <br /> <br />and awe engulfs me, <br />as I feel your courage <br />to walk down your garden path for the last time. <br /> <br />(8 August 2005)<br /><br />Diana van den Berg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/selling-your-home/
