REMEMBERING

How I long for mixed fruit jam,

Omo and mangles

and thickly cut ham.

Beef on Sunday

with all the trimmings,

Gran's apple pie

and glass jars brimming

with pickled onions

down in the cellar,

a flat cap raised

by an elderly fellow.

The coal man coming,

roofs covered in soot,

thick white snow

trampling underfoot.

The gas meter man

leaving a divvy,

going with a basin

to the local chippy.

Pea-souper fogs

that gave us moustaches,

eggs stamped with lions

and inch-thick rashers

of fatty bacon

fried in lard,

black pudding with mustard,

beds that were hard.

Bowls of dripping,

sensible shoes,

a clip round the ear

for being rude.

Cow-heel and tripe,

brown bread and hens,

goldfish in plastic

from rag and bone men.

All fading now in the mists of time

but still they exist

in the back of my mind.

by Beryl Lomas