R
Robert Harrison
Guest
And it rained memories
A rain soaked page of a newspaper managed to tumble
Its way along a rain mirrored pavement, reflecting the
The labored light from gas mantled streetlights,
Which stood in regimented order along side tarred road.
Their short arms stretched out like schoolboys ready for
Some gym exercise, no, not school boys, but Wurzell Gummages
Frightening away the night.
A cat meowed in the distance; its cry was that of plaintivness,
And a woman’s voice called in answer, “Tiddles, here kitty”.
Apart from the newspaper, still trying to overcome its rain
Added weight, and tumble till some obstruction barred its way,
The street was empty. The gas lamps hissed and painted the street
With lamp lit sadness that was somehow comforting.
I was standing outside a house, which was identical to all the other
Houses in the road. It was my old home where for
Twenty-five years I had lived in complete happiness.
The light was on.
Through the front window I could see mother standing at the table
In the front room, cutting a slice of bread from a Cottage loaf.
It must have been Sunday.
We always had a Cottage loaf spread with New Zealand butter on Sunday.
We sat down to salad to be followed by jelly and blancmange.
The fire was lit, and on the hob, a kettle steamed. It was teatime.
Mother had her customary cigarette in her mouth. She never drew in the smoke,
But let it drift towards the ceiling.
My siblings and I watched in fascination as the ash grew in length
Until finally falling onto whatever lay beneath.
I could hear the radio playing.
There it stood where it had always stood, on the sideboard dad had made.
The old Steam Radio as we called it, shaped like a church leaded window.
Alongside of it stood its source of power, the familiar glass jar with electrodes,
Like bunny ears, sticking out of the top tied with wires leading to the back of the radio.
Hutch was singing In The Still of the Night.
Mother looked up and spoke to someone. Was it me?
A feeling of terrible loneliness came over me.
And I wanted oh so much to cry.
A rain soaked page of a newspaper managed to tumble
Its way along a rain mirrored pavement, reflecting the
The labored light from gas mantled streetlights,
Which stood in regimented order along side tarred road.
Their short arms stretched out like schoolboys ready for
Some gym exercise, no, not school boys, but Wurzell Gummages
Frightening away the night.
A cat meowed in the distance; its cry was that of plaintivness,
And a woman’s voice called in answer, “Tiddles, here kitty”.
Apart from the newspaper, still trying to overcome its rain
Added weight, and tumble till some obstruction barred its way,
The street was empty. The gas lamps hissed and painted the street
With lamp lit sadness that was somehow comforting.
I was standing outside a house, which was identical to all the other
Houses in the road. It was my old home where for
Twenty-five years I had lived in complete happiness.
The light was on.
Through the front window I could see mother standing at the table
In the front room, cutting a slice of bread from a Cottage loaf.
It must have been Sunday.
We always had a Cottage loaf spread with New Zealand butter on Sunday.
We sat down to salad to be followed by jelly and blancmange.
The fire was lit, and on the hob, a kettle steamed. It was teatime.
Mother had her customary cigarette in her mouth. She never drew in the smoke,
But let it drift towards the ceiling.
My siblings and I watched in fascination as the ash grew in length
Until finally falling onto whatever lay beneath.
I could hear the radio playing.
There it stood where it had always stood, on the sideboard dad had made.
The old Steam Radio as we called it, shaped like a church leaded window.
Alongside of it stood its source of power, the familiar glass jar with electrodes,
Like bunny ears, sticking out of the top tied with wires leading to the back of the radio.
Hutch was singing In The Still of the Night.
Mother looked up and spoke to someone. Was it me?
A feeling of terrible loneliness came over me.
And I wanted oh so much to cry.
