London Pride(Edited January 2014) Poem by John Rickell

London Pride(Edited January 2014)



Does the rose beside the green front door
bloom as when I was youth.
Does the gate clash against the post
the spring that gave us rides
sitting on the bar, six-gun at the ready;
waiting for the sheriff and the call to dinner
(dinner time was twelve, supper time at six)
Is the London Pride beside the path,
the zigzag line of bricks, still there?
the fluff from rugs shaken every week
clinging to the terracotta edging.
I would go back, but know the answer.
The place was home, apple trees and chickens
copper in the scullery, Yorkist Range
in the kitchen, clip-rug in the hearth,
bones stewing in the oven every day,
washing on the clothes-horse, waiting
for the rain to stop, steaming up the windows.
Nostalgia isn't what it is, memories fade, distort
The rose beside the green front door....
London Pride and dreams.

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
The garden gate was sprung we road it every day.It was a council house and the home of a happy family, We were not allowed to play in the street. Life was hard but happy. mother made our clothes and dad cobbled our shoes. hens at the back, rabbits and a vegetable garden.
Cabbage white butterfly caterpillars ate the cabbages. We chased the butterflies sought the eggs by hand (no insecticides and not a lot of money) my trousers made by Mum.Sunday school twice on Sunday prayers every night and the Bible for a book.over-coat on the bed when nights were cold Inherited a happiness which has lasted til to day!
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