First House on the Left

There is a house on a hill One little corner where time has stood still And as though caught in some pendulum swing I try to go but home pulls me back in Centuries passed through this door The stories we write have been told here before All of their voices still breathe in these walls It's as though things never change here at all Oh is this the boat made of old bricks and mortar That's kept us afloat as we sail through the years? Or is this the light that shines from the shoreline? The port where we know we can rest? Or Is it just the first house on the left? The garden tells most of the tales With fragments of china, old horseshoes and nails Flower seeds planted by hands gone before Asleep through the winter then blooming once more And is this where they slept on the way to the jail? Or the shop where the lady had sweeties for sale? Or is this just the nest that was emptied by war? Or the room where the next generation was born? Oh is this the boat made of old bricks and mortar That's kept us afloat as we sail through the years? Or is this the light that shines from the shoreline? Pushing us out and then pulling us in Or is it the rocks, so firm and unchanging? Is it the port where we know we can rest? Or is it just the first house on the left?