Poetry

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What i want to write about to-day,is that word
called nostalgia,about stone walls washed,and
things swirling in the dust,some odours must,
lead to rooms that are now lost,over time where
they are now,and paper stripping off the walls,
somehow a lamp is flickering,when oil is low,
fire fading the cinders glow,and the inner bolting
of a door,when everything has quieted so,climbing
up the stairs that creak,the dark outside the
lanes asleep,and through a curtain i would peep,
no doors are opening in or out,all doors are closed
no ones about,the quarry's bare no people there,
gone to their homes ,and to their beds,nightime
closes all things down,until the morning comes
around,and then another day it dawns,then comes
new sounds,and life again is found.
Joe .

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