The first house on the left

Too tired, again. Just three more nights and days. 

This song is by 30-year-old Katherine Priddy of Birmingham, West Midlands. 

 Maybe we've all known houses like this, but the house in this song is an English house, and probably a lot older than most houses in Canada. There is a house on a hill 

One little corner where time has stood still 

And as though caught in some pendulum swing 

I try to go, but home pulls me back in 

Centuries passed through this door 

The stories we write have been told here before 

All of their voices still breathe in these walls 

It’s as though things never change here at all 

Oh, is this the boat made of old bricks and mortar 

That’s kept us afloat as we sail through the years? 

Or is this the light that shines from the shoreline? 

The port where we know we can rest? 

Or is it just the first house on the left? 

The garden tells most of the tales 

With fragments of china, old horseshoes and nails 

Flower seeds planted by hands gone before 

Asleep through the winter, then blooming once more 

And is this where they slept on the way to the jail? 

Or the shop where the lady had sweeties for sale? 

Or is this just the nest that was emptied by war? 

Or the room where the next generation was born?