Our era was chimney smoke <br />idly falling onto rooftops <br />and gradually into memories <br />we never noticed <br /> <br />Not soundtracked by traffic's snarl <br />children's whoops were not quite pure <br />but echoed no threat, <br />nor eras to come <br /> <br />Handsaw cut on cuddies <br />old slabs of pine in flames - <br />under a shovel of smush - <br />were the fragrance of our time, and <br /> <br />out across our open ground <br />Bobby Johnstone yelling 'Dio diote', <br />melting butter dripping <br />from a scone as he ran, <br /> <br />was the leitmotif, until <br />they crowded us with houses <br />rushed us with lorries and vans, <br />wails of urgent passers through, <br /> <br />and I think we might have loved it then. <br />But, down in the woods now <br />sometimes for long moments <br />in the smoke from burning branches <br /> <br />I can go home<br /><br />jim hogg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smoke-on-the-rooftops/
