Dream House
- May 18, 2025
- 1 min read
Updated: Feb 9
The house was real is now a dream,
Where we lived in summer light,
And occasional Midi rain.
At dawn the rising sun backlit
A land beyond the sea's horizon;
The valley rolled its homesteads
Where cypresses fumed on foothills
Of the Alpine porphyry.
Within, they led their closing lives
And entertained their guests. The son
Who killed himself lived down below,
But we never knew who'd lived before
They watched the morning glory.
It was enough to make it part
Of our lives too. So we lived at ease
In the rooms of the absent son.
Now, the house is sold. Fresh curtains hang
Above the spot where the father fell.
New carpets hide the entrance hall,
Where the mother ceased. The shading tree,
Where she lay paralysed has gone,
And present owners dwell not on
Lives and deaths in self-same rooms;
They, too, will change into a dream,
And we, who will not see the house again.
©Terry Hodgson2025
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