A Brush with Death

House-hunting can be a joy or a frustration, but it certainly provides a fascinating window on the lives of others...

 

 

Dusk was falling in the town

As we entered the hidden back street,
Lit by a dim yellow lamp,
Retracing our steps
To red brick Victorian days.

We hesitated, uncertain,

Puzzled by this back-to-front house,
With its narrow path, leading
Past the outhouse
To the shadowed entrance.

Surely the back way in

But now opening onto the road,
The former front door
Leading nowhere but to the lawn,
A fence and a private car park.

A shadowy figure loomed up

Out of the dusk
Eager, extending his hand
In a friendly gesture –
Sharp, hopeful, ready to do business.

The agent led the way into Tombland.

At once we were trespassing
On the final moments,
The sudden demise, it seemed,
Of the former occupants.

Wandering from room to room,

We witnessed a life
Arrested in its prime,
A kitchen in working order,
A hairbrush lying on the mantelpiece,

Carelessly discarded,

Like the life of its owner,
Still bearing the dead hairs
Or did they still contain
Some residual growth?

Eerie, poignant signs

Of a life once lived
In these four walls,
Amongst spacious,
Well-appointed rooms.

Outside, leaving regretfully,

Coveting the space
But unable to detach ourselves
From this air of sadness
Pervading the house,

We stopped next door, arrested

By a scene from Christmas Future:
Scrooge among the tombstones,
Transfixed by the stone mason’s art,
Would we find their epitaph here?