I walk past the house at forty three,
That hold some special values to me,
Now filled with some else’s dreams,
With they’re tastes of colours and themes.

The garage the green me and dad painted together,
Now looking sickly in the weather,
The once white brackets rusted and flaked,
From the suns touch are now all backed.

That same door number with the poppies,
Never replaced with any other copies,
And above the door, my old room, small it was,
Where I climbed on the room just because.

All my memories I have of this house,
Now gazing at it with my new spouse,
They are the ones I cherish so much,
That it might burst if I give it a touch.

All the family dining at the table,
Almost sounds like a fable,
On the Poets Estate on Tennyson Drive,
In the thoughts of a poet will always survive.

27 Oct 2010