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Jun 2010
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,

Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,

Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,

Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,

As they ran to their shelter,

And the cows mooed on the fields above,

And the goats cried in the barn.

Mother pumped water from the well,

We ran around collecting eggs,

Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.

In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,

The fire roared in the range,

Granddad sat in his big chair,

He burned anything just to keep warm,

We thought it very strange.

Mother worked at the big white sink,

Knitted squares hung from a line,

We made tiny plasticine dolls,

They slept in plasticine beds,

We drank Dandelion and Burdock,

Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,

It came in enormous stone bottles,

Dad got it every week from a man at the door.

Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,

A room we called the playroom,

Was carpeted with goat skins,

There were jars of melted metal,

Who knows why?

We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,

Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,

In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,

We loved to look inside.

The bathroom was a scary place,

There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,

At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,

We cuddled together to keep warm,

One night we saw fairies at the window.

Our aunty had a gramophone,

Records all scattered around,

We had to be careful where we trod,

She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,

We didn’t understand.

Our uncle slept on the top floor,

In a huge brass bed,

One day I took him a cup of tea,

We were not normally allowed up there,

He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.

He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.

My grandmother slept downstairs,

She always was very ill,

Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,

We got her water from the spring,

To cure her, but she died.
Clare j Wright
Written by
Clare Wright  Manchester
   DJ Thomas
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