Far Away

I dream of the old house, five thousand miles away, across the sea, high on the hill, the garden where the rhododendrons shade the black and white tiled steps up to the door. I enter, walk from room to room, and see my mother on the balcony; she sits beneath the tumbling vines and reads her book. My dad is in his study playing chess. The house smells like it always did. Each thing still lives in its accustomed place. This is a journey back in time: I am a child, was gone a little while and now am home. The light falls through the windows differently. The trees have grown, obscure the view, and hide The house from outside glance. Mom’s hair is white, And father walks the stairs with halting steps. I hope there will still be a few more years For me to make this journey. Far away Are home and childhood, and the church bells toll The hours relentlessly. 7/11/2017