Monday, June 18, 2012

For Sale

My home for fourteen years, but, in your eyes,
It's termed a saleable commodity.
Absurd to feel defensive, but it's me
You're wounding when you pause to criticise
A creaking door, or look with pained surprise
At peeling paint.  Somehow I didn't see
Those grubby marks until you came;  the tree
You call a hazard is a friend I prize.
I shall grow hardened to this new-found pain,
I shall show people round and gain the skill
Of placing potted plants to hide the stain
That time has wreaked upon the window-sill.
But, as a traitor, how can I explain
To bricks and mortar that I love it still?