This childrens room of former days lies hidden in roof’s gable end
These many years unvisited. The children that it loved seem to forget.
They never call, but they were mortals, dead. Not knowing this it mourns
Lost happy times, the pillow fights, the books that burned the candle low,
The apple-pie-made beds, ghost stories in the dark, the endless arguments.
And sadder times, the in-disgrace ‘go to your room’ commands.
Which had it share hurt with its pets and try to give them solace.
But here am I an unwished caller stumbling into time-locked past.
Draped heavily with wards of spider generations who would keep it so.
The room is bare, lit from a grimy window, furniture long gone.
Wallpaper now adrift discloses underlying newspapers not scrim,
For this was just the childrens’ room not seen by visitors,
Revealed there May Gibbs’ Bib and Bub, delight of infant years
To set me back on mother’s knee. The room claims me its own.