That House at the East End

Four decades old, these hallway strolls,

with those diving memories and tiny mouse holes.

I walked upstairs towards my door, 

dusts and webs greeted me, falling on the robe I wore. 

I drew the curtains to tell my bed, 

dolls, study, cupboards and tinny eddy,

that I was back and had forgotten nobody.

Nothing had changed in that petite room of mine,

neither Innceah's smile, nor Timmie's small arm which always struck at nine.

I visited my sister's room next,

which from mine's, was towards the left.

She didn't stay there anymore,

I took out the photograph of ours, 1965- at the seashore. 

Towards the right of the dining was that of our parents',

vivid wall hangings, portrayed parable, and a silent innocence.

It remained empty ever since they left us.

Since then, we came here as a guest and not as dwellers.

I went downstairs to the drawing,

adjacent to which was the living.

The black coated wooden piano,

that overture, with notes both high and low.

The carpet near the fireplace,

to get which, brownie and Tommy would often race,

and that little tea table, our place to divulge to our mother, 

and those stiff old sofas made from pure leather. 

Back then, we would take our inks and draw on newspapers and magazines,

make moustaches on women's faces, unlimited evil grins.

And also in our old school notebooks,

with red ink, we would tick and cut, and comment bad or good.

Every brick of this house, holds a bucketful of memories,

that evening garden walks and chats with roses and lilies. 

Those pines behind the pool, those hill views from the lawn,

those fresh breezes and those beautiful scenes from dusk till dawn.

This house, the loveliest place we've ever known,

it's not just a building but a member with heart, blood, brain and bones.

This place where I took birth, my guardian, and a friend,

now here I wish to die, in this house at the east end.