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.
Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2017