Stains on the Table

In the kitchen of the big old rambling farm house
Right in the middle of the clean red tiled floor,
Was the biggest and oldest of wooden tables,
Well scrubbed clean, yet still had stains galore.
Each one the old lady told always held a tale.
Some of joy and happiness, some of grief or pain.
We sat at the table, it’s wood felt warm and kind,
It was nothing very fancy, indeed it was quite plain.
Yet history was well hidden in those faded stains,
If only she would tell me, could remember the names
Of those who sat in that kitchen that was so clean and bright.
What did they do at the end of the day? Did they play games?
A bright gleam came into those old eyes of the deepest blue,
You want to know all about our family, the things we used to do
When the days work was finished and the meal was cleared away.
How we laughed when we played, and the songs we sang too.
The round brown stain there was made on a very special day,
Everyone was getting ready for Johnny coming home from sea.
We had all gone out to meet him and left the big pot on the stove,
How we laughed till dad put it on the table right where you see.
Mamma yelled, but soon we knew that this table would be to us
Almost like a history, helping us to remember our happy family.
This one that is a deep knife mark was made when I was all alone,
I had to kill a chicken, our Sunday treat, but that was hard for me
For I fed them every day. I placed her on the table and closed
My eyes real tight, I swung the knife, I missed her, to my delight.
She spoke about each mark on that table so well worn and old,
Each tale filled her with joy as we talked long into the night.

Ann Margetson
December 1997
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