This Old House

This Old House by Joseph Baker

Our love grows old
and will be condemned soon.
Cracked glass
tinkling underfoot
like a forgotten toast.
Creaking timber
taken slowly by
ignoring all the
invisible infestations.

Ripped, yellow wallpaper,
covering a powder pink dream
with hints of white-washed
wall beneath: a story in layers of

Blistered shingles
we left to rot
beneath the season’s beatings.
Swollen pipes,
we never cleared,
now moan at night.

The foundation was never even,
they say.
Black letters peeled,
fallen away. But after all,
we allowed the decay.


  1. I love this extended metaphor poem and that terrific painting that goes with it; one thing that draws me to your writing, it is never bland, insipid. I try for that verve, freshness in my writing too; the original draft of ‘the albino’ was flat and uninspired, so I jumped in and energised it

    Liked by 1 person

    • Very kind, John. I crave the new and that fuels my inspiration. I guess I’d add by new, I mean anything I haven’t experienced or learned about before, which can be things from the past.


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