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
(dinnertime was twelve, suppertime at six)
Is the London Pride beside the path,
the zigzag line of bricks, still there?
Fluff from rugs shaken every week
clinging to terracotta edgings

I would go back but know the answer.
The place was home, apple trees and chickens
copper in the scullery, Yorkist  range
Oven on the right, black-leaded every Sat’day
clip-rug in the hearth, as Psyche sleeps
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.

(London Pride: English name for Saxifraga umbrosa)