To celebrate the 250th anniversary of the birth of Williams Wordsworth I’ve written my own spot of time. Not written about the Lake District but in homage from an industrial mining town as the backdrop.
The scuffed knees,
chapped hands from the cold
Climbing and scrambling up trees
My mother did scold.
Those terrace streets harder and more desolate than the Cumbrian hills.
But they were our escarpments our rivers, our dales.
Playing out in all weathers made us hard as nails.
The delivered coal on the path so neat
Safety in numbers as we played in the street.
Our soot filled lungs didn’t stop the laughing. We knew we’d get clean in the old tin bath.
Hardship was an illusion, we had what we had. My imagination did flurry in scribbles, In my old note book.
My experiences made me a considerate man. Protecting the environment whenever I can.
No paper required to relay my passion
For today I write electronically it’s the new fashion.
Don’t discard those memories of old
Of the childhood you had and enjoyed
It’s not a case of reminiscing, remember
You are the man, because of who you were as a boy.
BRIAN MACK 