The Pink House

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.