A poem about revisiting a past love |
The Pink House I went for a walk today, around the lake Where we used to wander Up the hill, past the Farm, along the stream, Like when we were younger. Been wondering for years Whatever was the fate? Of that Pink House in the woods, The one with the wobbly green gate. I peered through the gardens to catch a glimpse Of whoever might live there Was surprised to see old Jack sitting in the shade; Invited me in for dinner. His wife Rosie died Some seven years ago A heart attack, he told me, As the sun was getting low. He showed me a tree house, Built by his nephews last summer I told him when we were young, hiding from the world, We used to come here Really? He said, I find that surprising. I told him a few anecdotes, Which he found amusing. So much has changed; there’s glass in the windows And the gate’s been mended The kitchen’s still the same, though; Much is like we left it It’s even still got The outdoor loo To think, I used to dream Of living there with you. Old Jack told me to send you his regards; To come back again soon So that’s why I’m writing this, go visit That dear old buffoon Stir up some memories, It’s good for the soul Twenty years have passed since then But it’s not too bad, on the whole. |