MY MOTHER'S HOUSE

There's someone still in residence
in my Mother's house
with it's comfy cushions
and daffodils in a vase
and it's wardrobes crammed full
of clothes she has never worn.

Someone who resembles my Father
is often there too.
He shares my recurring dream:
the two of us, walking the dogs
beneath lofty pines and copper beeches.
I stop to tell him how much I love him,
but he's gone.
I am frantic.
Then I see his war medals
lying in the mud,
grey and lifeless,
like his ashes.

I rush back to the house.
The windows are open.
The radio is playing
an old fashioned tune,
and the tempting aroma
of rhubarb crumble
permeates the garden.
They are both here, my parents,
in the rose garden
holding hands.

And their love
is pulsing through me too.
I want to sleep forever,
because I know that if I awaken
I will find the house gone
and in it's place
two stark modern dwellings:
cold and soulless...
and I will again be an orphan.