Where do I come from?

Where do I come from? You may well ask.

I am from monochrome photographs,

That baby sitting in the plastic bath.

I am from a post-war terrace:

Swinging on the garden gate,

Skipping up the tiled path,

Sitting on the carmine step,

Standing on tip-toe to flick the knocker

And give it a gentle tap.

I am from hot summers,

Hidden in the awning

Striped like a stick of rock,

Counting earwigs in the pebbledash,

Picking weeds in the garden,

The ones that gave me a rash.

I am from the scullery,

The constant cloud of gas and Fairy,

My grandmother baking pies and pastries,

Boiling up tea towels in an old pan.

I am from the wire works

Where Granddad gathered copper

In the soles of his boots –

I thought they were gold nuggets.

I am from Sunday mornings,

Hiding in the feather bedspread,

Jumping down the stairs,

To dip soldiers in my boiled egg.

I am from Sunday afternoons,

Watching movies on the telly,

Eating salad and raspberry jelly,

Floating ice cream in lemonade

Or licking a multi-coloured lolly

From the tinkling, chiming van.

 

© Kim M. Russell, 2016

img049