The last night when I walked on the cobbled lane, it rained again. I knew it's time.
Things look old often when they bleakly begin.
On the verandahs and at the attics. Lurking between broken walls of comforting unease.
Generations of laughter now framed into broken hourglasses. Books that had in them what families would mean.
It had rained heavily then too.
There had been plenty of growth in the green.
And the afternoon heat waxed and waned with silly salt potions. Long days , deep like artic summers, bright but breathlessly long they had been.
There's life lost and regained. Like Milton's paradise.
Now, the numbers have dwindled, new sprouts bask in newer hours, unseen.
There's no death before you locate one in your senses. And about life?
Less losses, even lesser bouts to win. These are days when rooms smell like apparitions and melodies creak on those few seats. The pain of birth from coyly painted swings.