Remembering

REMEMBERING

Do you remember the time when we used to play,
From early morning, and right through the day?

We’d run through the woods, and climb the trees,
And run, and jump, and scrape our knees.

Our scooters were propelled with a push of the foot,
Our chimneys were swept by a man, covered in soot.

The radio system had valves glowing bright,
And the brown bakelite switch, would turn on the light.

Mum did the washing in a boiling tub,
Then through the mangle, giving stains a rub.

The coal fire burned, in a tiled surround,
And twenty shillings made up a pound.

The shipping forecast on our wireless sets,
And raincoats hanging up, dripping wet.

Every house had it’s own tin bath,
That hung on the outside wall, by the path.

The hallway sheltered my dad’s old bike,
That he rode to work,and the shops alike.

The front room housed an upright piano,
That had brass candle holders,and the room was hallowed.

It was only used when folk came to stay,
The tin of ham came out of the sideboard that day.

A plaster covered a graze on the arm,
We could walk the streets, and come to no harm.

We’d leave the doors unlocked all day,
And go to the shops, along the way.

You’re house would be safe, because people could trust,
In friends and neighbours…their loyalty a must.

Mum would peg her washing on the line,
And chat over the fence, for quite some time.

The Rag and Bone man called,for junk and rags,
And our reward was a goldfish, in a bag.

Every home had a story to tell,
And I’m sure that not many doors had a bell.

The telephone was scarce, unless you were rich,
And the colour was always, black as pitch.

The nearest phone was in a box of red,
With “A” and “B” buttons, for the pennies fed.

Police cars sped along, ringing their bell,
No sirens, or lights,the pedestrians to tell.

It’s a pity that we can’t turn back the years,
Because life today, holds too many fears.

Nostalgic thoughts go through our mind,
Of bygone days, and friends so kind.

The world will never be the same,
As those childhood days, when life was a game.

© Jim Bell

Further information, and more poems by Jim Bell