My gray head turns aghast,
broken glass, broken glass,
two by fours, without their walls.
Floors lifted by years of rain,
walls hanging on in vain,
nothing is as I recall.
The trees encroach, strangle hold.
The mice nest, keep out cold.
Green makes a moldy pall.
When young I played here.
The rooms were full of cheer
now mice and bugs, creep and crawl.
My playhouse, stone, still stands.
Dad built it with his hands.
Can you see my childish scrawl?
Through the bramble bush I leave
memories to relieve.
Can you hear my soft footfall?