|
I
wrote this of my childhood days in bomb scarred Liverpool in the
1940s
MY CHILDHOOD HEDGEROWS
People
speak of days gone by,
The things they did which they recall,
Of hedgerow blooms the feathered plumes
Of birds among the trees so tall.
When I reach back to childhood days
The things I did when I was small,
My hedgerows were the crumbling ruins
Of terraced slums and bombed scarred walls,
On disused land we’d make a world
Of make believe as children do,
No feathered plume, or hedgerow bloom
Could ere outshine the magic hue
Of treasure found, midst broken stones,
With dirty hands we searched for dreams,
Buttons, beer tops long discarded
Shone to us like soft moonbeams,
With broken glass, (called ‘banny mugs’)
A treasured find like flowers rare
We’d sell for gold, (just old cracked jugs)
We’d found amongst our hedgerows there
Lilian Glanister
Ìý
|
|
|
|
|
