This house was mine. I know it still.
The driveway where in winter's chill
we carried home our first-born child
another hand had let grow wild
with maiden grass. A hockey net
straddled the spot where we used to watch
fireflies flirt in the violet dusk.
My feet have paced each chipped tiled
inch. This house was mine. I know it still.
Turning to go, I understood
about ghosts. The old man in the wood
whose back I glimpsed at end of day.
The body goes but hearts can stay
resolutely stuck, though we knkow we should
all leave home. This house ...