Of Days Gone By
By Richard Mabey Jr.
O’ leaning pitchfork,
symbol of a father’s hard work,
to dig deep into earth,
to bring value and worth,
to this English name.
O’ creaking floor, of wooden porch,
hold dear this glowing torch,
of flame of goodness, valor and truth,
of sadness of lost youth,
for it can never be the same.
Of the old open door,
leading unto oaken floor,
upon widespread rug woven,
and fresh bread baking in oven,
of dining room table’s candle flame.
O’ to see Grandpa standing tall,
telling tales and stories to all,
my cousins and I, of glory days,
of the old canal’s locks and stays,
that brought respect to our name.
Of Grandma rolling dough,
ever so carefully, so
that the crust be thin and even,
to warmly bake in the old oven,
o’ brightly burns love’s flame.
To see Dad in his scout uniform,
with such pride it was worn,
of Dad teaching a new scout the right
way to tie a bowline-on-bight,
a boy’s wild spirit to tame.
To hear Mom once again tell a gentle story
of heart felt love and glory,
with soothing voice and loving heart,
the cherished memory to never part,
an arrow of mother’s love’s careful aim.
O’ dear sister of golden hair,
of toys and games to share,
in childhood’s vivid imagination,
of Saturday morning’s animation,
O’ burn brightly torch of childhood’s flame.