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