Tucked away by a shroud
of blue-silver trees
is a house. Honeysuckle
clings to one side, sucking at the foundations,
and ivy to the other,
attempting the same, but
it is still too young to force
the bricks and mortar to crumble.
How old the house is, no-one quite knows,
and nobody wonders anymore.
It has simply always been,
part of the landscape of the sleepy village,
like the trees, the marsh, the hills
and the little creek that trickles
beside the gravel path.
Villagers move away and return,
families grow and people die.
The house watches it all,
making no comment except
to occasionally flap its shutters in the wind,
waving goodbye to old friends.