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Poem

Old wooden houses
In need of a paint
According to the authorities
The red faded roof
The white peeling walls
The veranda worn bare
By the children who lived there
And under the floor, thru manholes and more
They got a fright, One night
When they went in to fix
Whatever was wrong
And found the hut we played in
The blankets and rugs, food
Matches for the stove
Fearing a burning end
Scolding, ashamed
'You must never go ...
Under ... the house again'
Years later
The bulldozer came
But our memories remain
Verandas we played on
The hidden door
We laughed on the veranda
Climbed on the rails
Felt the smooth wood
Of the porch
Our bare feet squealing with excitement
Only now I can see
An old memory
No inkling back then
Of the times that would change
No inkling back then
Of the memories of our games
When they told us their memories
It was like a distant land
We would never go there
The past is the past, unravelling just so ...
Children will usually go ... somewhere ...
When told not to go.
Trees gather closely to the lovely wooden frame
The long hallway beckons, 
It's skittles again!

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