Family life in the forty's

I remember so well those childhood day's,
when we were just kids with our playful ways.
that quaint old house with children three
will ever be locked in my memory.
that cosy coal fire, whose flames seem to dance,
would fill me with wonder, as if in a trance.
my mother cooked, and toiled 'round the house,
and did it so willingly, with never a grouse.
those dark winter nights were magical to me,
as we listen to the radio, whilst having tea.
no television then, no computers or such,
just an old-fashioned family closely in touch.
often, in the small hours I would rise from my bed,
and sit by the fire with it's ambers so red.
it was such an adventure to sit there alone,
and listen to the sound of the winds gentle moan.
and then run to bed, as if chased by a ghost,
and dream of breakfast and that hot lovely toast.
no nurseries for us, at home did we stay and be cared for by mother,
each and every day.
father worked hard, and when day was done,
would toil on the garden, 'til the setting of sun,
potatoes, carrots, beans-what a huge crop,
and all done for us, for our tabletop.
sometimes in dreams these memories are clear,
so vivid, so strange and so very dear.
the smell of the garden fires on summers eve,
take me right back, as my dreams they do weave.
the house has gone now, long time ago,
and the folk in the new house will never know
what life was like, all those years ago.
Mother has gone now, fled is her day,
and father's in care, his brain in decay.
that old lifestyle has vanished for ever,
but, would I ever change it?-no, never!