The Blue House at the End of The Lane

All the houses

on my street, 

are grey.

Except for the last.

The blue house,

at the end of the lane

My parents,

and the other adults on the street

warn us 

not to venture too far

towards the blue

But, I am young

I am reckless

One day,

A few months ago

I rode my bicycle to the end of the lane

to the blue house

propped it on sky-coloured bricks

I peered inside the window

A canvas of yellow tulips

above rows of rainbow books

lining crimson shelves

Sitting on a rose Persian rug 

And on a vividly blue chair

Sat an old man

He too

looked blue 

One day,

A few weeks ago

I rode my bicycle to the end of the lane

to the blue house

propped it on sky-coloured bricks

This time,

the old man was sitting on his blue porch 

He looked up as he heard feet scrape concrete 

in front of his blue, blue house 

“The world has turned grey and dark”

Said he

“When I was younger the world was different.

Full of culture and life

Children these days do not know what vibrancy feels like.”

He used a lot of familiar terms

in his monologue 

Words I now know

but did not then

You may have heard of them,

in history class

I think they are called,

Colours.