We moved out of that house
when i was eleven
but there I was again.
In my dream, visiting.
But in my dream
mum and dad had stayed there
and i was now looking
at the home from where they
had passed away.
I wondered from the
all too familiar kitchen
into the garden which had always
been a redevelopment area for dad
and marvelled at the changes.
Nothing to set the world afire
but his handiwork was everywhere
though the place looked tired
and rather unkempt now.
As memories returned
i walked up the slope to the
far fence where there was now
a rudimentary bench
supposedly built by dad
to rest a while and admire
his handiwork.
I too sat a while.
A warm and comforting
wholesome dream which
somehow ended there
and I arose with it in my memory.
Dreams take us to some
wonderful places of fantasy.
Do you ever write of yours.
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Author:
dusk arising (
Offline) - Published: June 19th, 2022 06:24
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- User favorite of this poem: Jerry Reynolds.
Offline)
Comments3
Beautiful writing, Dusk.
Yes, I do, often.
Beautiful memories, I had to sigh! Yes, I always write mine...
Nice portrayal! I do write my dreams too.
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