When we were younger
Our feet danced
To the beat of the factories
On every street,
Metal bins rattled
Voices roared
As our rain-heavy leather ball
Slapped on the wall,
And we watched our dads
As hooters blew
Stride from the heat to the corner pub
And the pull of beer,
It was always enough
To halt our game
And wonder at the marvel of what
Lay ahead for us,
As the words of our mothers
Rang in our ears
And we knew that all too soon our games
Would be lost for good,
And that the storm ahead
Was rising still
Our adult lives being forged in the mill
Despite our cries,
Sweets and penny chews
On happy days
We dipped our toes like liquorice sticks
In life’s tart sherbet,
But not for us, not yet
The working hours
Our endless time still filled with joys that
Poverty couldn’t kill,
As on the kitchen table
Our mothers served their fare
The food that always smelled so good yet
Always was the same,
And mornings came so very late
With our fathers gone
And days of school – what did we learn
But how to play the game?
And did we ever really know
What lay beyond
The streets down which we lived our days
And voices never heard?
