Reading Thomas Hood’s Poem on the Underground

Reposting this for more air

I remember, yes, I too remember 
the house where I was born, 
and the only photograph I remember 
is the one I do not have
of the front, taken before the war 
which commandeered for bombs 
the railings and the wrought-iron gate.

I remember the jagged stumps, 
and the missing gate, like a loss of face;
the absurdity of the cloche hats,
my mother sadly smiling sadly,
my kind aunt, no kids to spoil
and a suicide plan for retirement,
who kindly spoilt me sick with plums.

I remember the dining-room, 
agony of long evenings, wind howling 
under floor-boards, lino lifting,
reek of smoke gassing the air,
the Bakelite wireless in the corner, 
wheezing and spluttering in and out of life,
my father causing friction twiddling dials.

I remember the air-raid shelter
my parents shared with old Mrs Weaver
till the last all-clear, the cat that sulked
in the cherry-tree if left for a day;
flour-faced Mrs Weaver, my first death at eight;
the cat at ten, just a whiff of gas,
after his trouble in the coal-shed.

I remember the landing,
where I stood and it was always cold,
and I’d call that I couldn’t sleep,
as they niggled away downstairs,
the one coal fire petering out,
a smouldering rumble of a row
she would miss when he’d gone.

I remember the front room, 
conserved for special occasions and never used,
icy as a monk’s cell, my Meccano retreat.
I google and see new railings, a new gate –
imagine phantoms gliding from room to room,
trampling over the boy on the landing
as they traipse through the man on the train.

.