Fifties House (Poetry)

I think I still remember which stairs creaked
and the way light slanted through the landing's glass;
the smell of coal - its wet and spitting gloss -
and patterns, patterns everywhere, it seemed.

On the front room's neat-combed ceiling swirled white fans;
alternate papered walls, in fifties style,
stood grey and yellow - prim, their flowers plain
and raised in pimpled rows like lines of braille.

The carpet's tones were beige and muted browns,
not fitted but a square with lino round
in parquet imitation; mats and rugs
curled by the hearth and warmed the hallway's tiles.

And not much went with anything, except
the cushion covers matched the careful folds
of home-made curtains - windows crisply hung
with bargain fabrics. Nothing left to waste.

Interior design meant little then -
the theme was comfort - working class but clean
and tasteful, as utility made way
for luxury and innovative things.

I still recall the sofa's spreading arms -
the texture of its stiff, uncut moquette;
the sheen of polish showing up the grain
along the sideboard's carved walnut veneer;

the bevelled mirror on the chimneybreast;
the narrow mantelpiece with bric-a-brac -
the plain-faced clock, with key, that rarely went;
two china boots collecting odds and ends.

I never moved in heart - I wander still
between the rooms where childhood had me caught
dreaming the impossible escape -
I took the whole lot with me when I left.