When We Were Young

This is an attempt at a poem about being eight in 1962,

the last summer before moving onto pastures new.

 

 

Childhood roads were many like the traces of surface cracks

branching out on dilapidated: condemned; terrace cottage walls,

one of these was my home, a two up, two down with kitchen

added on, then there was an outside loo next to a bunker full

of coal for our living room fire.

 

From the time I was born, those murmurs of age were a statement

of hardship, Dad working all hours day and night to have what he

called...a better life. Even in the dark when dreams would unfold,

ravenous mice would work just as industriously; devouring flowers

and houseplant leaves that weren't even allowed to become faded

or dusty,

 

hear them nibbling through curtains like craving best slivered,sliced

cheese dangling almost in shreds at our windowsill; plus anything

else that took their fancy. It was insane how each morning mum

opening door from stairs, they'd scuttle off drowsy after night's

feeding frenzy, back to nesting day away,

 

while in the kitchen scrubbing dad's shirt collars and cuffs,

busy mangling ready for pegging, thinking about what to cook

that day, mum could never workout where they'd bed down, she'd

nod her head in disgust with a “tut, tut,” swearing another cat she'd

get, which eventually with great persuasion, convinced dad that

would be a good reason.

 

Then there was that day helping mum prepare and toss salad;

what a treat, a happy marriage of many colours displayed in a bowl,

that wallowed in dressing...but wait! Something was missing; a touch

of red. Went to the pantry to get some tomatoes,when out of the blue

touched something hard, not squishy squashy and juicy,

 

the shelf being just out of reach meant I had to stand on tiptoe;

grasping the object held in my palm; shock horror a big black

cockroach I had in my hand, but having no idea what it was at

the time, I immediately threw it on the floor, whereupon the bug

scuttled off at great speed, leaving me to shiver and shudder in my

hour of need.

 

On sunny days I'd be banished out to play with an appetite for

adventure, only extrovert youth would engage with strong

steady limbs, vitality too assisting surviving, not concealed like

timorous deer of an unknown forest, we weren't afraid to brush

with danger, or sit openly on a summer's evening under a fair moon

and wreath of stars, tinny transistors engaging with ears, Tornados

entertained with Telstar, whilst Shadows and their twanging

guitars serenaded us with Apache.

 

There were no rugged paths leading down to bracing oceans,

or fragrance of freshly cut grass, just washing lines in smelly

back yards; leading onto lanes where galloping like wild horses

kicking up dust, young girls screaming while boys gave chase;

 

onto streets where men staggered out of pubs, we young

dodging traffic,those pavements fit to play and have fun,

rolling marbles until they landed in gutters, then the game

would be over and done.

 

Or fastening on metal roller skates mastering art of speeding

up and down, much to horror of those tittle-tattle; eagle eyed

parents pushing prams, rocking babies with busybody gazes,

if they saw us skating on the road – which of course we often did.

 

When many times tumbling with grazed dirty knees,constant

appeal of funeral home wall, stood as tall as apple trees; daring

us kids brave enough to climb, grabbing fruit suspended,

temptation too strong, we never did get a telling off by mums

with homemade pinafore aprons, curlers and hairnets were

their vocation:

 

they had more important goals, like gossiping about this and that

and who knows what, leaning on open swinging gates where hinges

squeaked but nobody cared or complained.

 

Down the Crescent Mrs whoever had five young sprats that never

wore shoes or socks, sitting outside number 28 with dirty faces

playing with toy cars, Oh! How I remember those crying babies.

 

Opposite lived my best friend, I'd rap on her door, hear her mum or

dad's footsteps walking down narrow hall.“Can Julie come out to play?”

I'd inquire.

 

“Come on in,” her mum would say, a short lady with a heart of gold,

usually found in her small galley kitchen baking cakes, or bread making,

then the aroma of mouth watering dinners cooking.

 

Down hallway she would lead, passing front room never used,

to the back where dad would sit with pipe and newspaper, tv on;

watching for football results or some wrestling, cause this was

a Saturday afternoons entertaining.

 

Julie would shout at the top of her voice,

“mum...tell her come up,”

 

“Go on,” her mum would say.

 

Julie slept in the attic, it was quite an endeavour climbing

that ladder, I never liked heights, but like scaling that

apple tree wall never let it defeat me, as my feet stepped on

each rung trying not to fall, finally at the top it was a girly room,

bed covered in flowery eiderdown, a proper ladies boudoir with

fancy dressing table,

 

mirror wearing all her jewels, necklaces and bracelets hanging

like the piece of furniture had some place to go, there were fancy

Avon perfumes, pretty peach soap on a rope, but being a tomboy

for me it didn't appeal.

 

Julie's mum starched everything in sight, including the

cotton bed linen which would try to dance on line, though was

stiff as a board, but easier to iron and smelt so fresh and clean.

 

Her dad was a roofer, had his own business, so was not at any time

out of work, never happier than when up high looking down,

spying with homing pigeons that flew around; there were no

shelter of trees cradling nests, so I don't recall any

chirruping sounds.

 

Seems like only yesterday when Woolworths was still

alive and kicking, around back of delivery road; we'd gather

up pallets and crates in a circle, imagine they were wagons.

Using only fingers for guns or invisible bows and arrows

that never did any harm.

 

Then there were pirate ships where we'd sail away on salty air,

searching for imagined buried hidden treasure in crates

of packing straw.

 

But then one morning dad reads letter, the time had come for us

to leave, “they're pulling our cottage down...we're losing

this home.” Well that was a shock, the end of this junction in my

life, here was I thinking it would last forever; now it was time

to take flight, another road to discover.