That is where the Torney’s live,
You mutter to the room, staring from
The window at a house through
The winter trees, I’ve played there
Many a time before that happened,
You add, your voice almost a sigh,
Your hands laid flat on the windowsill,
Feeling the smooth wood beneath your palm.

You’ve just that moment arrived to stay
With your aunt and have run to the room
You always stay in and nothing has changed:
The white flowered curtains are drawn back,
The bed made with clean stiff starched linen,
The same picture on the wall of ducks
On a pond dusted and cleaned,
And the same view of the house beyond
The wintry trees and the grey cold sky.

You told no one about what happened
At the Torney’s; let nothing slip, kept
Your small mouth shut and sealed as you
Had promised, but you no longer go
And play at the Torney’s now, and even
Though aunt asks why you make excuses
And only stand and stare unable to forget
What happened in that cold house there.