Mann St (Winning Teacher's Poem)

The house at 109, framed by hydrangeas,
blanketed with crunching red leaves.
Filled with objects and images that take me back,
to a time where tales of Hobbits and Rings filled the rooms
and the popping sounds of homemade ginger beer exploded in the old kitchen
sticky and delicious, splashing the high ceiling.

Was there ever a ghost in the hall?
Or was it my overactive imagination, creeping in the dark.
Cluedo on the carpet, The Bangles in the tape player
then later,
Pulp Fiction hiding under the bed with Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness posted on the wall.

I remember
somersaulting on my bed with the news of a baby sister
and waiting at the letterbox, worrying about sirens.

My own children find happiness here now,
laughter by the pond, Frisbee in the yard,
discoveries by the old pine tree.

Even if it were to change hands
I don’t think it will ever leave me,
How can it? It’s part of who I am,
it’s why I am me.