Last of a Generation
A poem
A poem
The flame on the candle flickered twice
the clock on the wall was striking thrice
no other sound save the scuttling mice
the old house creaked and groaned
the old man knelt before his chest
his shadow was his only guest
and counted coins with concealed zest
the wind outside still moaned
and no one noticed on that day
or if they did, they didn’t say,
that Silas Gaunt has passed away
the old house stood unowned
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