Take me back to the days when we would swing
from the branches of dogwood trees,
run down to the dock with our minnow nets
to check the crab pots,
or in early summer, before the jellyfish,
jump off the end of the wooden dock
into Peachblossom Creek
We’d swim across the river to the sandbar
to play in the tidal pools
until we were called in for supper.
` ` ` No one ever tells children the truth.
It comes at some point and then,
“` ““ “
it happens slowly so you don’t notice
and once it’s dead,
` ` ` ` ` ` it’s gone forever.
Days you can never have back.
Freedom as pure as a summer’s evening
stripped away as naturally and steadily
as winter strips the earth of its green.
There are no more summer days
at the house
on Peachblossom Creek.
We all grew up, our parents grew old,
and our grandfathers passed away.
It’s been years since that land was sold
with its great magnolia trees
that bloom every spring
“` “ `
…if they’re still there.
…. Perhaps they bloom each year for another happy family?
` ` <“•ª*`¬ ))~~~~>>}
But I don’t dare
turn right off the Oxford Road,
the first right after Peachblossom Creek Bridge,
onto Old Country Club Road,
where the gates to the house are less than a mile in,
I don’t dare go back again
` ` ` The sight of how the years have changed it
` ` ` I probably won’t recognize it
The House, The HOME,
where we celebrated so many Christmases
and summer nights catching lightning bugs
those years when we were children
those times that can never happen again
as we scattered apart like leaves on the wind