Old house upon the hill

An old house upon the hill,
an old house,
a shuttered house with paint peeling from the walls,
and plants outside dying,
as its broken windows blow gently in a light breeze,
an old house upon the hill,
with old newspapers on the floors,
cobwebs and dust,
window frames rotten and window latches covered in rust,
memories in photographs forgotten upon an old table that has seen better days,
a cabinet with open draws and a few old coins,
a few old coins,
not much,
not even enough for a drink these days,
in this shuttered place where the wind blows through and the spiders play,
a glorious art deco beauty in not so glorious decay,
an old house with no life,
but what life it must have seen,
positioned high on the hill overlooking the bay,
overlooking the sea and the waves crashing upon the beach,
as the seagulls fly high and go about their way,
what a place it must have been to stay,
what a place,
and what beauty there must have been in the garden on the patio amongst the tropical plants that now decay,
and maybe there are only ghosts here now,
only ghosts,
but I could live quite happily here,
for I can see the sea and live quite peacefully and write away the day,
and as I look out to sea,
I can watch the boats come as they may,
and as they sail back and forth upon the tides as I write,
and will be inspired by the view infront of my eyes,
for it is such a glorious view and so heavenly,
that there not enough words to describe,
to describe its glorious spread,
its glorious spread from the trees below me on the hill,
the hill that leads down to the sea,
the hill that leads to the beach and to the tropical palm trees,
and to the sandy beach with its shells and its starfish,
and a scattering of rocks where people sit and dip their feet in the waters,
and relax as happy as can be,
and as I sit here on the old chair on the patio,
I look at the house,
and I smile and imagine all that it could be,
I imagine the colours,
the colours that I could bring to it,
I imagine the a nice old wooden door with beautiful carvings,
I imagine to where it leads me,
to the hall with large vases of tropical flowers,
and then into the lounge,
light blue with sun streaming through,
minimal with pictures on the walls and books everywhere,
and a telescope in the window looking out to sea,
and silver one,
and on an old table magazines on travel,
and books with no time to gather dust but only air,
and yes,
yes I could quite happily live there,
live there with windows always mostly open and with the sounds coming through if birds that float so gently on the air,
yes I could live here,
I could live here happily without a care.

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