Withered Pages of My Childhood
I open the book of time once more and again,
where pages are engraved in my mind;
the worn old pages- all tattered and yellow,
oh, here is the house of my childhood;
and my memories come twirling . . .
The smell of old wood and the stained glass,
the french doors and the long curved staircase;
my little room overlooking the garden,
and the big claw foot bathtub- a lake to a child;
the kitchen old and cozy with wonderful smells,
mom humming as she cooks . . .
A little girl (me) playing quietly on the front porch,
with long hair in tangles and rosy cheeks;
and grandma rocking and rocking and knitting,
and I hear dad busy in his workshop;
my baby brother in his stroller sleeping,
oh, the happiness . . .
A child's table set for tea and dolls sitting pretty,
a real teapot and some china cups (a gift from grandma);
my kitty cat Snowball asleep on one chair . . .
I walk up the shady street of my memory,
up that big hill where I rode my bike;
to the end of our quiet dappled street,
and into a park lush green and full of songs;
oh yes, the water lilies float on the pond,
and white swans and ducks drift . . .
Further down the street and up a hill,
is an old church with big ornate doors;
I enter the gloom in my mind remembering,
pungent the smell of candles flickering;
and the memories flood back . . .
The worn withered pages of my childhood,
all the pages tattered and yellowed with time;
then slowly- I close tight this book of time,
until the next time . . .
_______________________
July 7, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Withered Pages of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1164-783-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Childhood Memories
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2019
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