The Empty Old House at the Top of the Hill

The empty old house at the top of the hill
Has stories to tell, yet is silently still
It’s sat all alone, all sullen and worn
For many long years, since before I was born

The windows are shattered; the porch is all sunk
The yard remains filled with old, rusted junk
The siding has weathered to dark shades of gray
The lawn that once was has now turned into hay

A remnant of rope, now frayed at the ends
Is all that remains of a swing shared with friends
The weeds have all grown right up over the door
Yet I picture it when it was once so much more

The windows once gleamed through lacey blue shears
That were washed and pressed monthly to last many years
The house freshly painted was pretty and prim
In sun-washed pale yellow and hand-carved white trim

The mom watered flowers, dressed in her green smock
And tended bright daisies aligned up the walk
The father one day built a swing in his shed
With a sturdy wood seat of planks painted barn red

Is that why this house is so sad and withdrawn?
Are the happy young children all grown up and gone?
Did the mother and father move off far away?
Will they ever come back here to visit some day?

I’m afraid there’s no answer, we’ll just never know
But I’ll tell you one thing right before I must go
One day I’ll come back with a bucket of soap
And cheer this old house up with well-deserved hope