A Living Room

The room where sunlight streamed and made me squint
In 'Fifty-Four - the curtains not yet up -
Grey Marley tiles, and fireplace mottled brown,
Chairs, sideboard, table - all Utility -
And one large mirror, but no carpets down.
The gateleg table that held soft-boiled eggs,
Dolls'house or drawing-book or Dad's accounts.
The wireless spoke, we gazed into the flames,
While cold and monsters lurked in corners bare.

Where I did homework, Father marked his books
And played the gramophone - Brahms, Schubert, Grieg.
The room that looked upon the Irish yew
Guarding the lawn, and Spencer's Spanish chestnut,
Which he cut down, and Mother cried, "The fool!"
And sunsets flared, and dreams were found and lost,
And Mum said, "Shape, lass!" when I didn't try.
And Dad said, "Stop that noise," and, "Learn your work,"
And both said, "Clean your shoes," and, "Go to bed."

That room, its radiator hung with towels,
And muddy footprints on the carpet's pile,
Where Martin muscled in, and laughed, and swore,
And argued with my parents oftentimes.
Where Christy crawled, and stood, and fell, and walked,
And Laura laughed, and squealed, and sucked her toes,
And plates got cracked, and toys were left behind.

This is the room where aunts and uncles gathered
When Father died, and after he had gone
We reminisced, watched gardening programmes, cried
And sipped our Horlicks in the setting sun.

This living-room is where my mother died,
And Spencer says, "I can't believe she's gone."
But I feel nothing but, "It's over now."
We take down mirrors, furniture's selected,
And crates are packed, and joys get left behind.