The house No 4

House No. 4

In the heart of the lane, by the old sycamore,

Stands a quaint little house, known as Number Four.

With weathered gray walls and a door painted blue,

It’s a treasure trove filled with memories anew.

From laughter that echoed in rooms filled with glee,

To whispers at dusk, where the moon watched with glee.

Birthday cakes baked in a kitchen so bright,

And stories spun late into the night.

The garden out back, a jungle of gold,

Held secrets of summers, of tales to be told.

Where wildflowers danced in the warm, gentle breeze,

And children would play, climbing high in the trees.

The creak of the stairs told of footsteps long gone,

Of dreams that were chased from dusk until dawn.

Graduations and weddings, and all in between,

Each moment a brushstroke in life’s little scene.

The attic, a haven of trinkets and time,

With treasures and photos and memories sublime.

Each dusty old box held a fragment of cheer,

A life wrapped in love, forever held dear.

So here’s to the house that stands strong and proud,

A shelter of joy, of laughter so loud.

Number Four holds a magic, that we can explore,

A tapestry woven with memories galore.