My Sleeping House


Gertrude Abercrombie

Brush away the cobwebs from  the dark corners in my attic?

Sweep away the dust that twinkles like far away stars in an inky black midnight sky from my cracked windows and scarred woodwork?

Open the doors, all of the doors even the ones that creak  and squeak on their rusted hinges all on their own?

Why on Earth would I take a broom to my house and risk waking it up? Can you tell me? Why would I do that?


Even a dead house deserves to rest in peace

no matter how awful it was in life.