Local Poetry

At 65 years of age, I sit and wonder
Of the days, when I was a lot younger

Of people so friendly, twas beyond belief
And to walk the streets, was a joy and relief

The village was that of old Goose Green
Of cobbled streets, and clogs that gleamed

Of women, in their aprons and shawls
And sometimes, there were squalls and brawls

But even then, the smiles were always there
Forgiven, forgotten and back, the way they were

Many old ones, well remember this
Our own playground which was sheer bliss

The owd "Bruck Brook" the fairground of all
Were young and old, had a great ball

We all remember well, the Old Pigeon Ranch
Where races were held from every branch

The bottom of Bentinck Street, where the ground was rough
Where football, Aggy and knock up was tough

But as always things ended with a smile
And back home we washed off all the grime

Then 18s and over, at their usual time
At 7 o'clock prepared for their usual pint

The times were grim and very needy
But no one ever became greedy

Burglary and theft was so very scarce
There was nothing to steal, things were sparse

A tap at the door and a welcome was there
Somehow there was always something to share

A jam butty, a cake and sometimes a bun
And always that welcome bit of fun

Some houses also had things not so nice
Like bed bugs, roaches and lots of mice

And as we all lay in our beds at night
The mice romped about with squeals of delight

And the roaches so big and lookin' well fed
Helped by the mice, tugged and pulled at the bed

And also towering over our village so small
Stood Blundells Pit, head gears high and tall

Where most of the men worked, day and night
And women struggled with all their might

Those were the days, where I sit back and think
The tears sometimes come, which cause me to blink

But all in all we had no reason to complain
We each in our own way enjoyed our domain

So I think back with great splendour and joy
Of the wonderful time I had as a boy.