Stepping into the parlour

I smell the oak of the dining table

That reads like a collection

Of days, crumbs of conversations

Aromas of smoke and laughter

With tears of life and death.

 

The grandfather clock recalls

The order of Sunday lunch at two.

Pops, puffing his pipe at one end, 

Dad at the other, me spectating

Banter like centre court tennis

Punctuated by the gramaphone's

Hum of applause.

 

As wafts of kitchen chatter

Infuse the room, Mum delivers

Heaven-scented lamb, and

Nan plants a ciggie-rich kiss

On my waiting cheek.

 

Her passing called time on

This table, this room. The 

Doorbell rings. Two house

Clearance men have arrived.

There is no turning back.

 

 

 

 

 

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