Over the River

This is about many things, both person and place. Lots of memories.

The great divide, years older than I,
but it is no century.
The walls repainted (a case of off-white)
and shelves of fond memory.

There was you, there was me,
it was square, it was clean,
and a modest abode at best.
The carpets soft, cold
the walls dented, old
but this was a room for rest.

The window-blinds sat in forested lines,
closets twofold and so empty, open.
Their contents, in time, were yours (and not mine),
the ceiling has crackled and broken.

So many things this memory brings,
colours silver, red, ochre, and blue.
Life ends and begins, and is so full of sins,
but all I remember is you.