A mill hand's terraced cottage
becomes our first address;
its pinched dimensions
the limit of long-forgotten philanthropy.
Bought through probate,
we step into dead man's shoes,
take on his twilight world
of roundpin bakelite sockets and leaky gas taps.
From amateur plumbing to ceiling replacement,
each weekend a choice of DIY;
my struggle to paste up wallpaper
begins a chain of memories.
When the prudently chosen wardrobe -
capacious and second hand -
can’t be made to turn our tight landing,
you axe the plyboard incumbents to matchwood
in less than ten minutes rage.
Taking stock of the hushed parlour -
floorboards and bookshelves
stripped, and empty now of wisdom -
a year of half-finished home improvements
returns my wooden stare.
Outside, the "SOLD" signboard
parades approaching departure.
Only I remain waiting,
in vacant possession of mixed feelings,
to hand on the keys, and leave.
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