Dream House

The house was real is now a dream,

Where we lived a while in summer light,

And occasional Midi rain. At breakfast,

When we rose, the dawning sun backlit

A land beyond the sea's horizon,

Dark cypresses fumed on foothills

Of the Alps. The fertile valley

Rolled its homesteads towards the edge

Of a mountain range of 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 and loved

The glorious view before they bought

Impedimenta for their stay,

It seemed a very natural part

Of our lives, too. So we lived below

In the rooms of the absent son.

Now, the house is sold. New curtains hang

Above the spot where the father fell.

New carpets hide the entrance hall,

Where the mother ceased. And the tree,

Beneath which she fell paralysed,

Has gone. The pair who live there now

Think not of former lives and deaths

In self-same rooms. They, too, and we,

Who will not see the house again,

Will also change into a dream.

©Terry Hodgson2025