The gramp’s

Because I have just finished decorating my About page, which I have procrastinated for such a long time, and am now exhausted and wordless, I shall borrow a cheap, paltry poem I wrote about a year back. Pardon it if it fairs terribly for I have never had any proper experience in poetry. I have read poems, certainly, Marvell and Wordsworth being some of my favourites, and I have tried before to mimic their style or replicate their work (high ambitions I know) but alas, failed almost abysmally.

On a lifeless lane

Stands a house, dark and marooned,

guarded by a lamp

whose filament has resigned.

The gates swing open

with a centennial creaking.

I enter the mouth

of the slumbering sloven

and immediately,

I am welcomed by a whiff,

stalish and sour.

Inside, the furniture rests

on spots depressed.

Dust and grime muffles the chime

of a longcase clock.

There, on a shelf sequestered

sits a picture frame;

An immortal vestige of

dear old gramp.


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