GOOD OLD DAYS
When I was younger,Remember wobbly teeth.
With cotton tied to the door,
Two brothers one sister,
As well as a blood stained
handkerchief.
Mum would pack a picnic,
So on a grass verge.
We could all go and sit.
They were good days;
I cannot lie.
Just so we could wave,
To the first coach
ever seen to go by.
If we did that nowadays,
There would be no harm.
Waving to coaches going by,
We would get carted off
to the funny farm.
Remembering stories,
That mum would tell.
Of a war torn past,
That must have been
A living hell.
With green card in hand,
Sister and mum. Went
to do some shopping,
There were only a few shops,
In our street they could pop in.
Can only imagine them,
Jumping off there feet.
Running for cover,
As a German plane.
Strafed the muddy street.
Not once but twice.
I may never been born,
If it wasn't for mums quick
thinking, Terror
she must have felt inside.
When They got home;
As she emptied her whicker basket,
Then found two bullets lodged in,
The whicker basket side.
Poetry by Alan J Ripley
Read 130 times
Written on 2022-03-20 at 00:10
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