There we spent our days.
In amongst the light, airy rooms.
In childhood's loving haze.
Where a word, unseen, booms.
Sweet memories that lie folded.
Shame that bends a child's head.
All of these, with murmuring whispers.
Rise to be remembered, on a sick-bed.
The houses of red stone, solidly.
They stand against the bare winter gloom.
Inside, fires light clear laughter.
For in cold withers the bloom.
Long walks in a spring's lush fields.
Flowers that tangle their taproots.
Streamers of clouds that drift on winds.
Dark rich earth that soils my boots.
In autumn breezes, we'd return home.
In the little library, I would read.
All the wisdom stored in an old tome.
My heart was soft, my thoughts light.
Born in love, born on loam.
My end with a mind bound with night.