John Rickell

(I November 1931 / York)

London Pride


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
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 was, memories fade, distort
The rose beside the green front door....
London Pride and dreams.
London Pride
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
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 was, memories fade, distort
The rose beside the green front door....
London Pride and dreams.

Submitted: Thursday, February 20, 2014

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