In my hundred year old house with its hundred year old walls,
it’s time for renovation as modernisation calls.
Layers of paper hide defects unknown,
paint and filler make a collage of walls with plaster all blown.
As we strip each covering away,
I wonder what things it saw and what tales it could say.
Stories of love, birth or death,
times of great happiness or someone’s last dying breath.
Centuries of change, still standing after two world wars,
people’s daily lives captured, eating food or doing chores.
A layer of flowers then stripes and plain paper with scraping revealed,
decades of conversation revealed.
I so wish they could speak, as the history of my hundred year old house I seek.