Plums In Autumn Poem by Ron Kaye

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.