deepundergroundpoetry.com

Coming Home (revised )

We were proud of the tree
in the street, the last of many
Planted in the twenties
Then it died, elm disease they said,
First I'd heard of elm.
Mam blamed the milkman's horse.
Without a tree we lived, mourning the passing,
The garden gate, green and sprung
Clashing closed bringing in my bike.
Streets were lined with privet, long before Leylandii
Trimmed at different heights and widths
Half a footpath left to walk,
cut every month by Dad.
Lawns to right and left flower beds in symmetry
Doctor Van Fleet  round the windows,
Fed by horse muck from the milkman's horse,
The front door green as the garden gate
Round steel handle, brass thirteen, letter-box in black.
Struggling round the side passed the London Pride
brick edged path to the back  trellis arch.
Vegetables, apple tree, rabbits,crowing cock
Lean the bike,shed closed, lock the door.
shoes wiped and hang the clothes,
Smell washing in the copper, belching steam
from the flue beside the porch;
where we played at trains.
Then to the table, brisket, cabbage,
potato mashed in butter,
glass of water, never wine; sheets airing in the hearth,
kitchen range, black and shiny, bones stewing in the oven,
Windows drenched in condensation,
home for twenty years. rented from the council.
Written by Kexby (john rickell)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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