I used to sit on my Nan’s knee; she ran her fingers through my hair
She told me all the stories of when she thought life was still fair
Many a time just sitting there listening to her stories told with mirth
I wouldn’t have swapped it for anything; there was nothing of equal worth.
Stories of my granddad, my mum, aunts and uncles too
Stories of the bombs landing, and all of them quite true.
To this day her old house, the wall tilts at an odd angle
When a bomb landed there, it blasted the streets only mangle*
There was always so many of us and not enough knees to go around
But I always managed to get one whenever we went round.
We were usually on the run, the rent man after money
Dad had got it to a fine art. Just booze no bread and honey
My Nan one did her anger flew, she struck him with a pan
I think it might have done him good; he started to become a man.
Those days now just a memory, but such wonderful though hard times.
No food no home no money but it was really great sometimes
A fondness there is for thing long past, whether good times or the bad
A time to remember the best of it, to get though it we should be glad
I still sit and ponder and feel her fingers through my hair
I’ll never say goodbye to my Nan, even though she isn’t there.
Mangle: Rollers to squeeze water form the washing.
In those days the whole street used to share a mangle the owner would be the wealthiest in the road.