London Pride (saxifraga urbium)

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?
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.
A rose beside the green front door . . . .
London Pride and dreams.