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Plums in autumn

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  • Plums in autumn

    The house no longer stands where it once was,
    they tore it down.
    Gone the funny twisted roof
    broken by the mining sinkhole far beneath,
    no more the welcoming arch
    … that led to welcome arms.

    Long gone those homely smells
    and genial hum of friendly homelier folk.
    The parquet hall,
    warm, and gently leading
    into happy rooms alive with soul
    now long decayed and spent.

    The kitchen clang and clatter silenced,
    Quelled, subdued to utter quiet,
    The pantry, long and tiled in gleaming white
    that harboured hidden store of every feast
    now grey with dust,
    encrusted sculptured imagery lies teased to every feel
    inquisitively peels at every sense
    with long memories of faded table talk
    and unremembered times.

    Gone the long ascending polished timber stair
    that nightly tolled aloft, invitingly
    beckoning our weary frames
    to secluded shelters where we huddled
    close and warm, sheathed,
    like peas, in podded threes.

    The magic orchard were we strayed and played.
    Long grass that hid us.
    Trees to climb
    aglow with golden apples on the bough,
    the summer fruit swinging high
    with plums and damsons purple black
    and cherries bright with every coloured hue.
    Such happy days,
    now gone, and oh so few.