There are no roads
that lead to this old house we created.
We have built it with our sweat, weeping and suffering – in fact I am still weeping –
we have wanted to move in for years.
We have sworn our forever here.

But there are no roads
that lead to this old house we created.

The whistling and humming begins when you step inside,
the blinding sunlight bathes your feet that nudges gently at your soul,
there is boundless love for everyone who enters,
in this old house
that we created.

I can live downstairs,
closer to the soil – so that I can smell the Ylang ylangs
when I am in the kitchen.
You can live upstairs,
so that you may view the entire landscape
that you love so much to photograph.
I can sing you my poetry when I sit on the steps,
as you scrub your camera lens clean.

We have reworked again and again,
replaced the flowers,
yesterday was daffodils, today’s were hibiscus and tomorrow will be poppies
until the house feels almost like a third entity – almost human –
our own comrade.

But there are no roads
that leads to this old house we created.

and I positively have to live in a house – how else can I cook my bell-peppers? – and you, you must live in a house too – what will they say if you don’t? –

The wind has blown out our candle every night –

it is a sign –

and I can see my reflection crying her heart and soul out there in the fields –

the wind is blowing ever stronger –

we must reunite, her and I –

and so we must bid the final adieu, although I do feel like death is a better alternative –

I am weeping again now, there is a wound on my chest from my anguished heart –

all because there are no roads –

that can lead to this old house

we once created.