And it rained memories

by Robert Harrison

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Rated "PG" by the Author.

This memory came while I was sitting at my front window

Looking out at the rain. It has been posted before but some of the youngster might like to comment.

The rain soaked page of a newspaper managed to tumble

Its way along a rain mirrored pavement, reflecting the

The laboured light from gas mantled lights,

Which stood in regimented order along side tarred road.

Their short arms used by the lamplighter to prop his ladder

Against, stretched out like schoolboys ready for

Some gym exercise, no, not school boys, but Wurzell

Gummage* frightening away the night.

A cat meowed in the distance; its cry was that of plaintiveness,

And a woman’s voice called in answer, “Tiddles, here kitty”.

Apart from the newspaper, still trying to overcome its rain

Added weight now floated along the gutter 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 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 an arched church leaded window. Alongside of it stood

It's source of power, the familiar glass jar with electrodes,

Like bunny ears. Sticking out of the top of the electrodes

Were 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 scarecrow from the book Wurzel Gummage