Revised




A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

Buckets of slag have ceased to fly …

Don doesn’t whistle as he passes
Old TY Pennar at night –
His signal that all was well.
He’s a richer man with money,
But poorer for the loss of his Alice
Who lays old in an early grave.

Aunt Jess, too, no longer there,
Where, at a few months age,
Mother displayed me with pride
Atop a blanket on the front lawn
Twixt grandma and the greater –
Four generations shuttered still.

Dear Miss Colebrook doesn’t smile
Nor give me a kiss from her bed.
Her windows have been changed,
Her roof renewed in slate,
Mod cons installed a’plenty,
But only now she’s gone!

Dear Aunt Marge doesn’t sit
On the wall out front, where
Gran and Grandad stood proud –
With a ginger Cat about their feet.

When all was well in their world.
When Grandma’s arms could
Make me feel at home.

It’s all changed.
They’re all entombed

Including mum,
Who was Ninety-Five,
Then marooned in a ground-floor flat
At nearby Pontllanfraith.

… but the green, green grass remains.



© griffonner 2020





Poetry by Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 101 times
Written on 2022-12-09 at 13:50

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Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
The grass turns into a forest if not tended,
The rain always washes the stains of us away.
Yet the world still turns and see's another day.
2022-12-10


arquious
These are the things that inhabit the thought and affections these days!
2022-12-10


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
As one gets older, one focuses more and more on who (and what) have been lost.
2022-12-09



It certainly does, you're stained with it , when you breathe out, the embers of the dragons lungs ignite, and daffodils for sale in shops, beg you to take them home. It is a beautiful poem. And, believe it or not, people don't change that much, I can still see your characters on the people about me here.
2022-12-09