Visiting The Folks (Poetry)

After Dad recovered from his stroke,
the garden, he was warned, would be too much
to cope with, so they left the family house
and moved into a third floor rabbit hutch.

I have to say, they’ve got it very nice,
with central heating, double glaze and all
familiar photos crowding every shelf,
the same old clock still ticking in the hall.

And it seems, in their retirement, they’re content
and comfortable with a restricted view
of common grass, a bus stop, a few trees
and the constant hum of traffic speeding through.

But I wonder, does he miss his well-kept lawn,
his greenhouse full of prize chrysanthemums,
the therapy of soil beneath his nails,
that flush of blooms before the winter comes?

When we drop in, the TV’s always on,
my mother brings in cake and cups of tea
and I’m glad they keep so cheerful, heavens knows,
but it never feels like going home, to me.