My Childhood Home

The older that I grow in years, the more my thoughts return
To the happy days of youth, and my childhood home;
To evenings by a coal-lit fire, the black lead range shining bright;
The warm glow from the cinders and the flickering of their light.

My father, a self taught pianist, would be at the piano to play.
My brothers would join in singing the songs of yesterday.
How lovely to hear the stories my parents would so often tell
Of their young days, their parents' ways, we knew it all so well.

There was the aroma of mum's cooking, she was as busy as a bee.
She would have a crisp clean cloth upon the table and delicious homemade food for tea.
I would watch her knead the dough for bread and put it in a warm place to rise.
How lovely when it was buttered with a slice of bacon put inside.

Then there was he Christmases, the decorations and tree so bright;
We children tiptoeing to see if Santa had left toys in the middle of the night.
So many things I dearly loved, and so often now recall
But the faces I see of my mum and dad are most treasured of them all.