The Front Room
Rosed walls and green-glossed frames,
Then seems now and now seems then.
A chain of denizens,
Each an era etches.
Granda’s tea-bowl, blue encircled,
Held warmly in cupped hands.
On the nearby chair, a plastic-red basin,
Emitting its steamy, soaped vapour.
Then Beatle suits and Beatle boots-
Stove-hot iron and polish.
Granny’s messages on the road,
While Banana Splits entrance me.
Now, Granny’s “Ma”, green snuff scented,
Enscourged by wax and Paddy.
Last, tribute paid by family of three,
Within those walls of ardour.