As I strolled along a roadway on the shores of Trinity Bay I stopped to view a salt box house in ruins and decay Weather-beaten shingles now strewn o'er with stones A symbol of a dying past forgotten and forlorn Amidst the grass and rubble I peered in through the door Thinking who might have held the keys in days of yore I gazed upon the papered walls and ceiling of spruce on beam Sagging now from neglect, the dampness and the rain The strewn books and hymnals, pages torn and stained Perhaps never to be studied by anyone again While a sugar dish still half full on the kitchen floor did lay To return was perhaps their intent, who can really say I wondered what manner of family had lived within these walls And had gathered round the table now decrepit in the hall Was it one of laughter, music and of joy? Or did those who lived here see life pass them by? Whose rubber boots were left to rot near the open door? Perhaps they served the father as he fished out from the shore< And the pretty flowered dishcloth in the rusting enamel pan How many times did it grace the mother's weary hands? A small stuffed toy, tiny boots, a mitt for a child's hand On a paint-peeled child's dresser, crafted by a father's hand Half-finished colouring books on the floor, crayons scattered round I seemed to hear small voices, mixed with the creaking sounds And old stove tipped on its end, bread pans stacked inside A flour sack hung on the wall, a pudding bag still tied Printed quilts so lovely you never would believe That a family would ignore them when they took their leave I stopped to examine a photo, a grizzled man of age Pinned upon an old pine board, his sternest you could gauge I asked myself who he was and what he would have to say If it were a different time and he were here today As I stepped outside it caught my eye, almost lost now in the trees An old trap skiff on its side, not a pretty sight to see Rotten now she must have been a good boat in her day But never again will create a wake on the water of this great bay Perhaps they never wanted to go, forced by the times The fishery dying, no work to get, young folks in their prime The anguish that they may have felt to leave their home behind A one-way trip across the gulf, a future on their mind I'm sure if this house could talk there'd be tales to tell About those no longer here and what fate they befell And as I ponder all these things, standing here alone I asked myself in days gone by, was it a house or a loving home? Ed Power Grand-Falls Windsor   Submitted By: NULL