THE PLACE OF OLD ONIONS:

The old larder, of dust-mote shadows & floor-board creaks,

From within the cavernous dark cool, old ghost-voices speak,

That place, where as a small child, hide-and-seek was played,

Where old vegetables sprouted & the creamy milk-urns stayed.

 

That place, where new churned butter & small bums were beaten,

With wooden spoons & spatulas, when food was nicked & eaten,

Where dust waltzes with the aromas of old baking, herb & spice,

And cobwebs icing the droppings, of stale crumbs & ageing mice.

 

That old singing place, that once was the heart & household hub,

Where bowls were licked & oaken shelves were all well scrubbed,

That cool darkened place, where only the young & old onions cried,            

Where now, the tears of children & old onions have long since dried.