Post by Steve Bowen on Oct 15, 2007 12:00:04 GMT 1
Time Capsule
“Charge the Pennywernies!” – loudly came the cry
As up onto the Iron Bridge we’d run and fists would fly.
Thirty pairs of grubby hands with bars and chains and knives
We’d “fight to kill” and kick and shout – ‘til someone lost his eye!
(At the rear I’d always be – fighting rear-guard action, see)
On account of my asthma, I’d rarely fight,
Though when running away, my chest was alright!
Then up the Ifor Tip we’d go with River Stinky down below
And down its heather slopes we’d slide
On cardboard polished by the ride.
We’d wander down onto the Bont
To kick a ball was all we’d want.
And playing soccer was a lark
Against the railings of Pant Park.
In summer at Pant baths we’d queue
To freeze in the pool that was painted blue.
Clothes in wire baskets, foot-troughs like ice,
But, if the “houses” were short, we might just get in twice.
In winter, the snow lay all quiet and still
And we’d slide soaking wet down the numerous hills.
Balaclava –clad we’d polish our runners –
The sight of us racing four-deep was a stunner!
And then, in the dark and the depth of the night,
Before dustbin-day a Dickensian sight
As, down from the hills, came the sheep and the horses
To feed where they could – twenty bins, twenty courses.
Come Christmas we’d wrap up and go carol-singing
And like the best gamblers we’d quit whilst winning;
And out of our booty some change we’d put by
For four penn’orth from Carini’s, my brother and I.
Before that at bonfire night we would try
To make folks believe that I was the “Guy”.
We’d stuff me with papers and don me a mask –
And it worked until a man stuck a pin in my – thigh!
Ah! The joys of a childhood are much better by far
When viewed from a distance with memory ajar.
And out of its storehouse some jewels are spilled
And we ignore all the bad times – their memories chilled.
But oh that I’d noticed how fine things were then
And perhaps spent more time thinking how
Much better to focus on good times today
Than grow old and forget “here and now.”
“Charge the Pennywernies!” – loudly came the cry
As up onto the Iron Bridge we’d run and fists would fly.
Thirty pairs of grubby hands with bars and chains and knives
We’d “fight to kill” and kick and shout – ‘til someone lost his eye!
(At the rear I’d always be – fighting rear-guard action, see)
On account of my asthma, I’d rarely fight,
Though when running away, my chest was alright!
Then up the Ifor Tip we’d go with River Stinky down below
And down its heather slopes we’d slide
On cardboard polished by the ride.
We’d wander down onto the Bont
To kick a ball was all we’d want.
And playing soccer was a lark
Against the railings of Pant Park.
In summer at Pant baths we’d queue
To freeze in the pool that was painted blue.
Clothes in wire baskets, foot-troughs like ice,
But, if the “houses” were short, we might just get in twice.
In winter, the snow lay all quiet and still
And we’d slide soaking wet down the numerous hills.
Balaclava –clad we’d polish our runners –
The sight of us racing four-deep was a stunner!
And then, in the dark and the depth of the night,
Before dustbin-day a Dickensian sight
As, down from the hills, came the sheep and the horses
To feed where they could – twenty bins, twenty courses.
Come Christmas we’d wrap up and go carol-singing
And like the best gamblers we’d quit whilst winning;
And out of our booty some change we’d put by
For four penn’orth from Carini’s, my brother and I.
Before that at bonfire night we would try
To make folks believe that I was the “Guy”.
We’d stuff me with papers and don me a mask –
And it worked until a man stuck a pin in my – thigh!
Ah! The joys of a childhood are much better by far
When viewed from a distance with memory ajar.
And out of its storehouse some jewels are spilled
And we ignore all the bad times – their memories chilled.
But oh that I’d noticed how fine things were then
And perhaps spent more time thinking how
Much better to focus on good times today
Than grow old and forget “here and now.”