inspired by the picture of the log lodge by the ocean; to see the picture go to http://ozlandbard.blogspot.ca/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2011-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=50

The Lonely House – by Florence Simpson – prose poetry

It stands, dark, quiet, alone, blindly gazing out to sea.  No sounds but the sighing wind, the seabirds, waves crashing on the rocks. Outside, the Christmas decorations are dark, unlit. Will Christmas come? Will this dark old house once again echo with voices, footsteps, laughter, carols?  Inside, the decorations, green swags, red bows, icicles, colourful balls, are dull with dust. The lights on the trees are dark, dusty. Dusty too are the gaily wrapped gifts, piled high under the tree. The house is lonely, only faint echoes of joy and laughter linger. No enticing odours of turkey roasting, apple wood logs burning. The fireplaces hold only the ashes of the last fires, three weeks old. Where is the family?

The old house stands, dark, silent, alone, blindly staring out to sea. Then, empty windows facing inland reflect movement. Two racing dogs, Irish wolfhounds, bounding happily over the snow. Behind them, running, shouting, the children! The family comes! Soon the old house glows with light, outside and in. Dust is gone, trees sparkle, laughter rings. Fires blaze in warming hearths. The heart of the old house warms, too.  Christmas will come again, and love, and joy, and feasting. The family is here, where it belongs, and all is well. Christmas will be Merry