Does the rose beside the green front door <br />bloom as when I was youth. <br />Does the gate clash against the post <br />the spring that gave us rides <br />sitting on the bar, six-gun at the ready; <br />waiting for the sheriff and the call to dinner <br />Is the London Pride beside the path, <br />the zigzag line of bricks, still there? <br />the fluff from rugs shaken every week <br />clinging to the terracotta edging. <br /> <br />I would go back, but know the answer. <br />The place was home, apple trees and chickens <br />copper in the scullery, Yorkist Range <br />in the kitchen, clip-rug in the hearth, <br />bones stewing in the oven every day, <br />washing on the clothes-horse, waiting <br />for the rain to stop, steaming up the windows. <br />Nostalgia isn't what it was, memories fade, distort <br />The rose beside the green front door.... <br />London Pride and dreams. <br />London Pride <br />Does the rose beside the green front door <br />bloom as when I was youth. <br />Does the gate clash against the post <br />the spring that gave us rides <br />sitting on the bar, six-gun at the ready; <br />waiting for the sheriff and the call to dinner <br />Is the London Pride beside the path, <br />the zigzag line of bricks, still there? <br />the fluff from rugs shaken every week <br />clinging to the terracotta edging. <br /> <br />I would go back, but know the answer. <br />The place was home, apple trees and chickens <br />copper in the scullery, Yorkist Range <br />in the kitchen, clip-rug in the hearth, <br />bones stewing in the oven every day, <br />washing on the clothes-horse, waiting <br />for the rain to stop, steaming up the windows. <br />Nostalgia isn't what it was, memories fade, distort <br />The rose beside the green front door.... <br />London Pride and dreams.<br /><br />John Rickell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/london-pride/
