Memories Of Marshmallows

An apple orchard in the front yard,
A climbing rope to wood in back,
A sturdy fortress made of lumber to the side,
Right by the slowly moving crick,

I'd play and frolic in the grass,
Learning newly how to sass,
Eating chicken with a spoon,
In my house with thirteen rooms,

The whitewashed picket fence,
And roaring fireplace,
A hardwood floor to carpet,
A relic we defaced,

A wall which opens to a television set,
And stairs lead to a balcony,
In this two-floor living room,
The destruction isn't over yet,

A ghost which haunts our every floor,
I'm safe from him, outside I'm sent,
Where metres away, far as we can go,
We set to pitch a tent,

The hot summer days,
Wilt to cold winter night,
And our camp is alit,
By the house's porch light,

And the grill's fired up,
It's our campfire now,
And surely well I'll sleep,
In this quiet, one-horse town,

And these memories of marshmallows,
Roasted by a fire encircled by rock,
Are a curio of past events,
Fiddling with driveway, drawn in chalk.