The house is no longer our home
but the heart holds it still as the place
where childhood memories were
crafted, formed and nourished.
I have not visited there for many years
and now my thoughts wind through its interior
and I quietly, with a smile, reminisce
about our weekly family gathering.
We sat around the dinner table every Sunday
It began as two then, me/three and four and five,
and more came and went through the years.
A ritual adored by all, that bound us together
The roast, the vegetables and roasted potatoes.
The chatter from mum, and the silent listening
My memory remembers her words as notes, music to my ears,
but am I perhaps recalling it too fondly
through those rose-tinted spectacles……
………….and why not?
My father’s homemade wine and ginger beer
were supped and enjoyed to the full
making the meal slip down and
adding to the humour as well.
The thick, lumpy custard that mum
considered a failure was always
so eagerly dispatched by me,
but less so by the others.
Apple crumble or trifle laced with
sherry was so anticipated, so delicious.
A dessert so deserved after
a long week’s travail.
We’d always had our fill,
always more than our fill
The afternoon was thus spent
sitting quiet and still.