Walking past my old apartment,
I try to remember what I've forgotten;
the street numbers climb upward,
counting off the years I lived there.

I try to remember what I've forgotten;
a woodpecker came every spring.
Counting off the years I lived there—
neighbours moved away and were not heard from.

A woodpecker came every spring,
his high strange cry the year my father died.
Neighbours moved away and were not heard from;
the mountain ash trees filled with robins.

His high strange cry the year my father died,
again the year when I lost my mother.
The mountain ash trees filled with robins—
late summer, the light red with berries.

Again, the year when I lost my mother,
I packed to move to another country.
Late summer, the light red with berries,
night gardens fluorescent with colour.

I packed to move to another country;
part of me lives there, only part.
Night gardens fluorescent with colour—
I remember what I want to.

Part of me lives there, only part.
The street numbers climb upward,
I remember what I want to,
walking past my old apartment.