I am sitting in the living room of my parent’s house;
If only these walls could talk they would tell tales
Of an open fire glowing in a darkened room, where
Curtains covered the windows, drawn against
The winter cold, chairs arranged around the grate
To capture the heat and if you left the circle
The air was icy against your face, but your body
Carried the memory of the warmth of naked flame.
And toast, cooked on the end of a toasting fork
That had a long handle, but was made of metal
So it heated up and burnt your fingers, but the
Flavour, melted butter and a slight taste of the
Coals, nothing like it can be reproduced, not even
On a gas stove (I know I’ve done it) trying to capture
Memories for my children to savour before TV,
iPads and central heating are all I can pass on.
We played cards, Sevens and Rummy I think it was
To amuse ourselves until it was bedtime, when we
Climbed the stairs to freeze between the sheets
Until finally our body heat won and warmed them,
I fell into a deep sleep, while a night light illuminated
The ceiling as I was afraid of the dark and made
Faces out of the patterned wallpaper; but now
This season looms for my dad, alone in this house,
As a dark and troubled time, my brother and I
Have flown the nest and memories of my mother
Who has passed, lurk in those dark shadows,
Where curtains cover the windows against the
Icy blast of winters cold fingers, short days
Offer a tunnel where the hope of spring beckons
At the end, not even the bright lights of Christmas
Offer much refuge, we will visit of course but he will
Always have those moments when these walls
Will talk to him, of how lonely life has become.