A pushbike at the gate
Of the house that lies in wait
Where Aunt Doreen spent her life
Through good times and strife.
The furniture being moved
Taken away to meet a stranger
Only dust to occupy
The seats in lifes theatre.
Her photographs to span
From youth into old age
Telling tales from every era
The turning of each page.
The house now locked and waiting
The man holds firm its imprisoning key
\" For Sale \" notices spring like rising shoots
But only Aunt Doreens could it be.