Memory hurts – our hearts are stung
But sometimes I think the pain is for
Not a particular place but more
A special time – when we were young
For freer days when we knew hope
And what we felt we had was – scope.
What people see when they enter our home
Is not a shabbiness, a bit of dust
The wear in carpets, evidence of rust...
All the pounding banks and pockets take
Slowly ceases to sound
We chuck the last uneaten Christmas cake...
