Wednesday, April 11, 2012

That Certain Touch



Take one house, dilapidated,
A house that surely must have waited
For Pamela and 'that certain touch'!
I never dreamed she'd do so much
With what was run-down, left to rot,
And, let's admit it, gone to pot.
Rather dreary, rather brown,
In an elderly part of town,
It was a challenge, it was tiring,
But she found the toil inspiring.
Memorabilia, lots of white,
Art-works, each one a delight,
A whiff of the Victorian age,
Rather like a setting on a stage.......
A work of art, exactly right.
I so enjoyed it all last night.

 A kitchen for one.
 A tasty corner.
 Sweet dreams.
On the way out.

                                           Brenda Bryant


Captured in a reverie,
With no need of company.
Outside the traffic, fro-ing, to-ing.
Inside here, a private viewing.

1 comment:

Kay L. Davies said...

I love the house, Brenda. I could see myself living there but, like the gentleman illustrating your second poem, I'd enjoy it best if living alone.