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POEMS

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Sundays

Sunday walks and best frocks,
Long hours in bed and breakfast cooked by the old man.
Rice peas and chicken after church,
Roast dinners, horseradish sauce, Yorkshire puddings
And more potatoes than you could eat,
Visits from aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents,
Trips to the seaside,
Having time to read the newspapers,
Coming home from Sunday school clutching our stamps,
Cold winters and toasting crumpets on the range.
Boredom and the same old programmes on the radio,
Family favourites’
The Billy Cotton Bandshow,
Rays a laugh
And Sing Something Simple.
You weren’t even allowed out to play,
But we went on bike rides with our fathers
Or walked to the harbour and sat on upturned fishing boats,
Grew up drunk pints before lunch,
Took trains to Brighton after partying all night in Brixton,
Went to art galleries, museums, concerts at The Royal Festival Hall,
Listened to the speakers at Hyde Park Corner,

We sat round the radio
As war was declared.
And when the air raid sirens sounded we went out to see if the planes were flying over or ran to the air raid shelter.
It was a boiling hot day and the bells didn’t ring for four years.

Sundays
When we gathered fruit from the orchard, played tennis
And you could smell the B.B.Q. all the way down the road.

Sundays
When fields were always golden and the sky was always blue.