At first, you note the neatness of the yard.
The lawn, for years unmarked by children's games,
is closely mown. The hedges standing guard
are clipped and uniform, demanding names
and years of residence, as you sneak through.
Your parents seem like monuments; their age
is written into everything they do:
mum's treasured daffodils; their patient rage
at nosy neighbours; dad's home brew (his best!),
so proudly poured, which always tastes like dirt.
You know you're free. Your childhood house arrest
is cancelled. Now, you willingly convert
to early days and chatty, lazy nights,
and savour these forgotten, old delights.