Ghostly canards pt1

through the spindles of the rocking chair,
I'd hide and watch the chaos burn,
travel like a ghost from dark corner to dark corner,
unseen and unadorned,
past the phone table at the base of the stairs,
to the kitchen with the familiar smells of baking cakes,
to the sound of a saw gently abrasive and chiding,
a carpenters things may father did make,

a radio softly playing in the back room,
a tv humming it's chorus of watch with mother,
sun proudly igniting the tar between the cobbles to bubble,
my brother stripping his bike with ease like no-other,
a david nixon magic book in my wistful hand,
as my furtive young eyes begin to scan the tricks,
the ghostly canards and mute whispers claw my memory,
how I wish those days round again,