Moss Upon The Brick - Part 4

Now I have grown old, my hair has turned gray,
The passage of time was so quick;
I wonder if years have weathered the house
With moss upon the brick?

I remember the house as it was in my youth,
I’m drawn down the muddy lane;
The trees, the walk, the peeling paint,
The broken window pane.

Why, even in my day, the boards on the porch,
From lying so long were sore,
They’d bent their necks and arched their backs,
Pulling their nails from the floor.

I wonder if years have caved in the roof?
If the weeds are growing thick?
If wind and rain have even left
A brick upon a brick?

I’m nearing the house, I’m afraid to look,
I laugh, my fearing is odd;
I’d always supposed the house would stand strong,
Like mountains, or faith in a god.

But mountains with time have melted away,
And I’ve had my faith in God shaken,
And someday the earth will not turn ‘round the sun,
Oh what is this risk that I’ve taken?

If I shatter a memory by returning to see
Whether my childhood world is the same,
And finding that things are not as I left them,
I’ve only myself to blame.

My hand on the gate, I look up the walk,
My heart turns the clock back a tick;
My faith, my life saved! – for there stands the house,
With moss upon the brick.

|| My Poetry ||