The Old House Poem by Paul Reed

I went back to the old house last night
The house where I was born
Things were just the way they used to be
The ‘Scarlet Climber' still on the thorn

I cut the grass and measured each step
Along the winding stripes, dark green and pale
Felt the softness beneath my feet
Felt the scythe in my hand to flail

Noted every boundary, step and joint
Every inch where I had placed my feet
Back then in the good old days
Our house at the top of the street

Stood again in the greenhouse
That safe haven from all of life's ills
Where once the earthy scent of tomato plants
Every corner and crevice filled

Felt the sharp frost on my thumbs
As the sprouts were prised away from the stalk
Found the hidden gap in the back hedge
I climbed through on the school walk

Entered solemnly the hallowed ground
Past the coal house and in the back door
The little kitchen still stood there
Just as it had before

I examined each room, each stick of furniture
Opened each door and looked inside
The living room that was the heart
The bedroom where you died

I loved this place so much
Left behind in life's slipstream
I went back to the old house last night
But it was only in a dream