As I sit upon the verandah’s edge
Through orchid blooms, over the leafy hedge,
I glimpse a wall, and a window bare,
Nostalgic memories linger there.
If I strain my eyes, I see
Children running wild and free—
Little frocks, and tiny bare feet,
Unkempt hair and smiles sweet.
Dolls set for afternoon tea,
Underneath a gooseberry tree.
If I strain my ears to hear,
Notes of a piano drift near.
Old songs and lullabies fill the air,
With laughter and shrieks everywhere.
If I strain my nose to smell,
Fabric softener and Christmas dwell—
Cooking, baking, fresh and bright,
Bilimbi fruits, drying in sunlight.
These memories press on walls once dear,
Through open windows they reappear.
A place that held its treasures tight,
Toys and trinkets, pure delight.
These floors I walked, a second home,
With parents and siblings not my own.
But like a bubble, it snapped one day,
Leaving me lost, with skies turned gray.
Yet still a voice calls soft and slow
To the time I left, so long ago.
Each night I drift with thoughts aflow
To knock on that wooden door, gently and slow—
Peeping in where my memories gleam,
The house nextdoor, a distant dream.