It Was A Small White House Poem by Gert Strydom

It was a small white house
near to a hillock
with a red painted plate roof
and it felt somehow
as if I had been there before.

The red steps onto the polished porch
shone as if it had just been polished
but there was something
in that glowing sheen
reminding me of a day in childhood gone
when I was cornered on that veranda

and cold water from a hosepipe
splashed all over me
from where my smaller brother
was spraying me

and I didn’t want to go into the house,
much too scared that he would follow me.