The house I grew up in

I wanted to write a poem today, and felt that it should be about the house I grew up in. It's a lovely house. My mother was housekeeper to a wealthy old lady called Miss Young. We had to leave that house rather abruptly, when I wasn't quite ready for it. So Ard Rhu has always had a strong pull on me. This photo was taken many years ago by one of my children. They egged me on the ring the doorbell, and say who I was.


I see a boy in a garden.
Sometimes I think he lives there still.
I am he and he is me,
but I don’t climb trees
or jump in puddles anymore.
 
I see a house with a baronial turret;
sandstone and whitewashed,
though it was once painted yellow
then called ‘The Turret;’ but now Ard Rhu.
It stands like a magnet for my emotions
My womb, my cradle: over to you, Mr Freud.
 
The present owner sees me with two
well turned out children
and slightly reluctantly
invites us in.
The sitting room was the lovliest room
and it still is
but I can only see it as it was
Memory fixed, it’s present irrelevant.