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Best Famous Auntie Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Auntie poems. This is a select list of the best famous Auntie poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Auntie poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of auntie poems.

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Written by Spike Milligan | Create an image from this poem


 Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!

Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 For Brenda Williams

La lune diminue; divin septembre.
Divine September the moon wanes.
Pierre Jean Jouve Themes for poems and the detritus of dreams coalesce: This is one September I shall not forget.
The grammar-school caretaker always had the boards re-blacked And the floors waxed, but I never shone.
The stripes of the red and black blazer Were prison-grey.
You could never see things that way: Your home had broken windows to the street.
You had the mortification of lice in your hair While I had the choice of Brylcreem or orange pomade.
Four children, an alcoholic father and An Irish immigrant mother.
Failure’s metaphor.
I did not make it like Alan Bennett, Who still sends funny postcards About our Leeds childhood.
Of your’s, you could never speak And found my nostalgia Wholly inappropriate.
Forgetting your glasses for the eleven plus, No money for the uniform for the pass at thirteen.
It wasn’t - as I imagined - shame that kept you from telling But fear of the consequences for your mother Had you sobbed the night’s terrors Of your father’s drunken homecomings, Your mother sat with the door open In all weathers while you, the oldest, Waited with her, perhaps Something might have been done.
He never missed a day’s work digging graves, Boasting he could do a six-footer Single-handed in two hours flat.
That hackneyed phrase ‘He drank all his wages’ Doesn’t convey his nightly rages The flow of obscenities about menstruation While the three younger ones were in bed And you waited with your mother To walk the streets of Seacroft.
“Your father murdered your mother” As Auntie Margaret said, Should a witness Need indicting.
Your mother’s growing cancer went diagnosed, but unremarked Until the final days She was too busy auxiliary nursing Or working in the Lakeside Caf?.
It was her wages that put bread and jam And baked beans into your stomachs.
Her final hospitalisation Was the arena for your father’s last rage Her fare interfering with the night’s drinking; He fought in the Burma Campaign but won no medals.
Some kind of psychiatric discharge- ‘paranoia’ Lurked in his papers.
The madness went undiagnosed Until his sixtieth birthday.
You never let me meet him Even after our divorce.
In the end you took me on a visit with the children.
A neat flat with photographs of grandchildren, Stacks of wood for the stove, washing hung precisely In the kitchen, a Sunday suit in the wardrobe.
An unwrinkling of smiles, the hard handshake Of work-roughened hands.
One night he smashed up the tidy flat.
The TV screen was powder The clock ticked on the neat lawn ‘Murder in Seacroft Hospital’ Emblazoned on the kitchen wall.
I went with you and your sister in her car to Roundhay Wing.
Your sister had to leave for work or sleep You had to back to meet the children from school.
For Ward 42 it wasn’t an especially difficult admission.
My first lesson: I shut one set of firedoors while the charge nurse Bolted the other but after five minutes his revolt Was over and he signed the paper.
The nurse on nights had a sociology degree And an interest in borderline schizophrenia.
After lightsout we chatted about Kohut and Kernberg And Melanie Klein.
Your father was occasionally truculent, Barricading himself in on one home leave.
Nothing out of the way For a case of that kind.
The old ladies on the estate sighed, Single men were very scarce.
Always a gentleman, tipping His cap to the ladies.
There seems to be objections in the family to poetry Or at least to the kind that actually speaks And fails to lie down quietly on command.
Yours seems to have set mine alight- I must get something right.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The Burglar Of Babylon

 On the fair green hills of Rio
 There grows a fearful stain:
The poor who come to Rio
 And can't go home again.
On the hills a million people, A million sparrows, nest, Like a confused migration That's had to light and rest, Building its nests, or houses, Out of nothing at all, or air.
You'd think a breath would end them, They perch so lightly there.
But they cling and spread like lichen, And people come and come.
There's one hill called the Chicken, And one called Catacomb; There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of Skeleton, The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon.
Micuçú was a burglar and killer, An enemy of society.
He had escaped three times From the worst penitentiary.
They don't know how many he murdered (Though they say he never raped), And he wounded two policemen This last time he escaped.
They said, "He'll go to his auntie, Who raised him like a son.
She has a little drink shop On the hill of Babylon.
" He did go straight to his auntie, And he drank a final beer.
He told her, "The soldiers are coming, And I've got to disappear.
" "Ninety years they gave me.
Who wants to live that long? I'll settle for ninety hours, On the hill of Babylon.
"Don't tell anyone you saw me.
I'll run as long as I can.
You were good to me, and I love you, But I'm a doomed man.
" Going out, he met a mulata Carrying water on her head.
"If you say you saw me, daughter, You're as good as dead.
" There are caves up there, and hideouts, And an old fort, falling down.
They used to watch for Frenchmen From the hill of Babylon.
Below him was the ocean.
It reached far up the sky, Flat as a wall, and on it Were freighters passing by, Or climbing the wall, and climbing Till each looked like a fly, And then fell over and vanished; And he knew he was going to die.
He could hear the goats baa-baa-ing.
He could hear the babies cry; Fluttering kites strained upward; And he knew he was going to die.
A buzzard flapped so near him He could see its naked neck.
He waved his arms and shouted, "Not yet, my son, not yet!" An Army helicopter Came nosing around and in.
He could see two men inside it, but they never spotted him.
The soldiers were all over, On all sides of the hill, And right against the skyline A row of them, small and still.
Children peeked out of windows, And men in the drink shop swore, And spat a little cachaça At the light cracks in the floor.
But the soldiers were nervous, even with tommy guns in hand, And one of them, in a panic, Shot the officer in command.
He hit him in three places; The other shots went wild.
The soldier had hysterics And sobbed like a little child.
The dying man said, "Finish The job we came here for.
" he committed his soul to God And his sons to the Governor.
They ran and got a priest, And he died in hope of Heaven --A man from Pernambuco, The youngest of eleven.
They wanted to stop the search, but the Army said, "No, go on," So the soldiers swarmed again Up the hill of Babylon.
Rich people in apartments Watched through binoculars As long as the daylight lasted.
And all night, under the stars, Micuçú hid in the grasses Or sat in a little tree, Listening for sounds, and staring At the lighthouse out at sea.
And the lighthouse stared back at him, til finally it was dawn.
He was soaked with dew, and hungry, On the hill of Babylon.
The yellow sun was ugly, Like a raw egg on a plate-- Slick from the sea.
He cursed it, For he knew it sealed his fate.
He saw the long white beaches And people going to swim, With towels and beach umbrellas, But the soldiers were after him.
Far, far below, the people Were little colored spots, And the heads of those in swimming Were floating coconuts.
He heard the peanut vendor Go peep-peep on his whistle, And the man that sells umbrellas Swinging his watchman's rattle.
Women with market baskets Stood on the corners and talked, Then went on their way to market, Gazing up as they walked.
The rich with their binoculars Were back again, and many Were standing on the rooftops, Among TV antennae.
It was early, eight or eight-thirty.
He saw a soldier climb, Looking right at him.
He fired, And missed for the last time.
He could hear the soldier panting, Though he never got very near.
Micuçú dashed for shelter.
But he got it, behind the ear.
He heard the babies crying Far, far away in his head, And the mongrels barking and barking.
Then Micuçú was dead.
He had a Taurus revolver, And just the clothes he had on, With two contos in the pockets, On the hill of Babylon.
The police and the populace Heaved a sigh of relief, But behind the counter his auntie Wiped her eyes in grief.
"We have always been respected.
My shop is honest and clean.
I loved him, but from a baby Micuçú was mean.
"We have always been respected.
His sister has a job.
Both of us gave him money.
Why did he have to rob? "I raised him to be honest, Even here, in Babylon slum.
" The customers had another, Looking serious and glum.
But one of them said to another, When he got outside the door, "He wasn't much of a burglar, He got caught six times--or more.
" This morning the little soldiers are on Babylon hill again; Their gun barrels and helmets Shine in a gentle rain.
Micuçú is buried already.
They're after another two, But they say they aren't as dangerous As the poor Micuçú.
On the green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain: The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again.
There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of the Skeleton, The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Bridge Over The Aire Book 3



The halcyon settled on the Aire of our days

Kingfisher-blue it broke my heart in two

Shall I forget you? Shall I forget you?

I am the mad poet first love

You never got over

You are my blue-eyed

Madonna virgin bride

I shall carve ‘MG loves BT’

On the bark of every 

Wind-bent tree in 

East End Park


The park itself will blossom

And grow in chiaroscuro

The Victorian postcard’s view

Of avenue upon avenue

With palms and pagodas

Lakes and waterfalls and

A fountain from Versailles.
3 You shall be my queen In the Kingdom of Deira Land of many rivers Aire the greatest Isara the strong one Robed in stillness Wide, deep and dark.
4 In Middleton Woods Margaret and I played Truth or dare She bared her breasts To the watching stars.
5 “Milk, milk, Lemonade, round The corner Chocolate spread” Nancy chanted at Ten in the binyard Touching her ****, Her ****, her bum, Margaret joined in Chanting in unison.
6 The skipping rope Turned faster And faster, slapping The hot pavement, Margaret skipped In rhythm, never Missing a beat, Lifting the pleat Of her skirt Whirling and twirling.
7 Giggling and red Margaret said In a whisper “When we were Playing at Nancy’s She pushed a spill Of paper up her You-know-what She said she’d Let you watch If you wanted.
” 8 Margaret, this Saturday morning in June There is a queue at the ‘Princess’ for The matin?e, down the alley by the blank Concrete of the cinema’s side I hide With you, we are counting our picture Money, I am counting the stars in your Hair, bound with a cheap plastic comb.
9 You have no idea of my need for you A lifetime long, every wrong decision I made betrayed my need; forty years on Hear my song and take my hand and move Us to the house of love where we belong.
10 Margaret we sat in the cinema dark Warm with the promise of a secret kiss The wall lights glowed amber on the Crumbling plaster, we looked with longing At the love seats empty in the circle, Vowing we would share one.
11 There is shouting and echoes Of wild splashing from York Road baths; forty years on It stirs my memory and Will not be gone.
12 The ghosts of tramtracks Light up lanes To nowhere In Leeds Ten.
Every road Leads nowhere In Leeds Nine.
Motorways have cut The city’s heart In two; Margaret, Our home lies buried Under sixteen feet Of stone.
13 Our families moved And we were lost I was not there to hear The whispered secret Of your first period.
14 God is courage’s infinite ground Tillich said; God, give me enough To stand another week without her Every day gets longer, every sleep Less deep.
15 Why can’t I find you, Touch you, Bind your straw-gold hair The colour of lank February grass? 16 Under the stone canopy Of the Grand Arcade I pass Europa Nightclub; In black designer glass I watch the faces pass But none is like your’s, No voice, no eyes, No smile at all Like your’s.
17 From Kirkstall Lock The rhubarb crop To Knostrop’s forcing sheds The roots ploughed up Arranged in beds Of perfect darkness Where the buds burst With a pip, rich pink Stalks and yellow leaves Hand-picked by Candle-light to Keep the colour right So every night the Rhubarb train Could go from Leeds To Covent Garden.
18 The smell of Saturday morning Is the smell of freedom How the bounds may grow Slowly slowly as I go.
“Rag-bone rag-bone White donkey stone” Auntie Nellie scoured Her door step, polished The brass knocker Till I saw my face Bunched like a fist Complete with goggles Grinning like a monkey In a mile of mirrors.
19 Every door step had a stop A half-stone iron weight To hold it back and every Step was edged with donkey Stone in yellow or white From the ragman or the potman With his covered cart jingling Jangling as it jerked hundreds Of cups on hooks pint and Half pint mugs and stacks of Willow-patterned plates From Burmantofts.
20 We heard him a mile off Nights in summer when He trundled round the Corner over the cobbles Jamming the wood brake Blocks whoaing the horses With their gleaming brasses And our mams were always Waiting where he stopped.
21 Double summer-time made The nights go on for ever And no-one cared any more How long we played what Or where and we were left Alone and that’s all I wanted Then or now to be left alone Never to be called in from The Hollows never to be Called from Margaret.
22 City of back-to-backs From Armley Heights Laid out in rows Like trees or grass I watch you pass.
23 The Aire is slow and almost Still In the Bridgefield The Joshua Tetley clock Over the Atkinson Grimshaw Print Is stopped at nineteen fifty Four The year I left.
24 Grimshaw’s home was Half a mile away In Knostrop Hall Margaret and I Climbed the ruined Walls her hair was Blowing in the wind Her eyes were stars In the green night Her hands were holding My hands.
25 Half a century later I look out over Leeds Nine What little’s left is broken Or changed Saturday night Is silent and empty The paths over the Hollows Deserted the bell Of St.
Hilda’s still.
26 On a single bush The yellow roses blush Pink in the amber light Night settles on the Fewstons and the Copperfields No mothers’ voices calling us.
Lilac and velvet clover Grew all over the Hollows It was all the luck We knew and when we left Our luck went too.
27 Solid black Velvet basalt Polished jet Millstone grit Leeds Town Hall Built with it Soaks up the fog Is sealed with smog Battered buttressed Blackened plinths White lions’ paws Were soft their Smiles like your’s.
28 Narrow lanes, steep inclines, Steps, blank walls, tight And secret openings’ The lanes are your hips The inclines the lines Of your thighs, the steps Your breasts, blank walls Your buttocks, tight and Secret openings your Taut vagina’s lips.
29 There is a keening and a honing And a winnowing in the wind I am the surge and flow In Winwaed’s water the last breath Of Elmete’s King.
I am Penda crossing the Aire Camping at Killingbeck Conquered by Aethalwald Ruler of Deira.
30 Life is a bird hovering In the Hall of the King Between darkness and darkness flickering The stone of Scone at last lifted And borne on the wind, Dunedin, take it Hold it hard and fast its light Is leaping it is freedom’s Touchstone and firestone.
31 Eir, Ayer or Aire I’ll still be there Your wanderings off course Old Ea, Old Eye, Dead Eye Make no difference to me.
Eg-an island - is Aire’s True source, names Not places matter With the risings Of a river Ea land-by-water I’ll make my own way Free, going down river To the far-off sea.
32 Poetry is my business, my affair.
My cri-de-coeur, jongleur Of Mercia and Elmete, Margaret, Open your door I am heaping Imbroglios of stars on the floor Meet me by the Office Lock At midnight or by the Town Hall Clock.
33 Nennius nine times have I knocked On the door of your grave, nine times More have I made Pilgrimage to Elmete’s Wood where long I lay by beck and bank Waiting for your tongue to flame With Pentecostal fire.
34 Margaret you rode in the hollow of my hand In the harp of my heart, searching for you I wandered in Kirkgate Market’s midnight Down avenues of shuttered stalls, our secrets Kept through all the years.
From the Imperial on Beeston Hill I watch the city spill glass towers Of light over the horizon’s rim.
35 The railyard’s straights Are buckled plates Red bricks for aggregate All lost like me Ledsham and Ledston Both belong to Leeds But Ledston Luck Is where Aire leads.
36 Held of the Crown By seven thanes In Saxon times ‘In regione Loidis’ Baeda scripsit Leeds, Leeds, You answer All my needs.
37 A horse shoe stuck for luck Behind a basement window: Margaret, now we’ll see What truth there is In dreams and poetry! I am at one with everyone There is poetry Falling from the air And you have put it there.
38 The sign for John Eaton Street Is planted in the back garden Of the transport caf? between The strands of a wire mesh fence Straddling the cobbles of a street That is no more, a washing line And an abandoned caravan.
39 ‘This open land to let’ Is what you get on the Hollows Thousands of half-burned tyres The rusty barrel of a Trumix lorry Concrete slabs, foxgloves and condoms, The Go-Kart Arena’s signboards, Half the wall of Ellerby Lane School.
40 There is a mermaid singing On East Street on an IBM poster Her hair is lack-lustre Her breasts are facing the camera Her tail is like a worn-out brush.
Chimney stacks Blind black walls Of factories Grimy glass Flickering firelight In black-leaded grates.
41 Hunslet de Ledes Hop-scotch, hide and seek, Bogies-on-wheels Not one tree in Hunslet Except in the cemetery The lake filled in For fifty years, The bluebell has rung Its last perfumed peal.
42 I couldn’t play out on Sunday Mam and dad thought us a cut Above the rest, it was another Test I failed, keeping me and Margaret apart was like the Aztecs Tearing the heart from the living flesh.
43 Father, your office job Didn’t save you From the drugs They never gave you.
44 Isaiah, my son, You made it back From Balliol to Beeston At a run via the Playing fields of Eton.
There is a keening and a honing And a winnowing in the wind Winwaed’s water with red bluid blent.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem


My muvver's ist the nicest one
'At ever lived wiz folks;
She lets you have ze mostes' fun,
An' laffs at all your jokes.
I got a ol' maid auntie, too,
The worst you ever saw;
Her eyes ist bore you through and through,—
She ain't a bit like ma.
She's ist as slim, as slim can be,
An' when you want to slide
Down on ze balusters, w'y she
Says 'at she's harrified.
She ain't as nice as Uncle Ben,
What says 'at little boys
Won't never grow to be big men
Unless they're fond of noise.
But muvver's nicer zan 'em all,
She calls you, "precious lamb,"
An' let's you roll your ten-pin ball,
An' spreads your bread wiz jam.
An' when you're bad, she ist looks sad,
You fink she's goin' to cry;
An' when she don't you're awful glad,
[Pg 248]An' den you're good, Oh, my!
At night, she takes ze softest hand,
An' lays it on your head,
An' says "Be off to Sleepy-Land
By way o' trundle-bed."
So when you fink what muvver knows
An' aunts an' uncle tan't,
It skeers a feller; ist suppose
His muvver 'd been a aunt.

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

Aunties Skirts

 Whenever Auntie moves around,
Her dresses make a curious sound,
They trail behind her up the floor,
And trundle after through the door.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 Eggshell and Wedgwood Blue were just two

Of the range on the colour cards Dulux

Tailored to our taste in the fifties,

Brentford nylons, Formica table tops and

Fablon shelf-covering in original oak or

Spruce under neon tubes and Dayglo shades.
Wartime brown and green went out, along with The Yorkist Range, the wire-mesh food safe In the cellar, the scrubbed board bath lid And marbled glass bowl over the light bulb With its hidden hoard of dead flies and Rusting three-tier chain.
We moved to the new estate, Airey semis With their pebble-dash prefabricated slats, Built-in kitchen units and made-to-measure gardens.
Every Saturday I went back to the streets, Dinner at Auntie Nellie’s, Yorkies, mash and gravy, Then the matinee at the Princess with Margaret, The queen of my ten-year old heart.
Everybody was on the move, half the neighbours To the new estates or death, newcomers with Rough tongues from over the bridge slum clearance.
A drive-in Readymix cement works bruised the Hollows, Ellerby Lane School closed, St.
Hilda’s bulldozed.
The trams stopped for good after the Coronation Special In purple and gold toured the city's tracks and The red-white and blue on the cake at the street party Crumbled to dust and the river-bank rats fed on it Like Miss Haversham’s wedding feast all over again.
The cobbled hill past the Mansions led nowhere, The buses ran empty, then the route closed.
I returned again and again in friends’ cars, Now alone, on foot, again and again.
Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

To Auntie

 "Chief of our aunts"--not only I, 
But all your dozen of nurselings cry-- 
"What did the other children do? 
And what were childhood, wanting you?"
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

325. Song—What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man?

 WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
 What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
 To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’.
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’! He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang; He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen,— O dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man! He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen, O dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man.
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a’ that I can; He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows,— O dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man! He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows, O dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man.
My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan, I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Bridge Over The Aire Book 6



Bonfire Night beckoned us to the bridge

By Saint Hilda’s where we started down

Knostrop to chump but I trailed behind

With Margaret when it was late September

The song of summer ceased and fires in

Blackleaded grates began and we were

Hidden from the others by the bridge’s span.
2 When you bent I saw the buds of your breasts As you meant and I laughed at your craft when You blushed and denied and finally cried But there was a smile in your eyes.
3 It was the season of yo-yo’s in yellow or Pink or pillar-box red and you spooled out The thread as only you could and it dipped And rose like a dancer.
4 The paddock by the tusky sheds was cropped And polished by the horses’ hooves, their Nostrils flared and they bared their teeth As we passed and tossed their manes as we Shied from the rusty fence where peg-legged We jumped the cracks and pulled away each Dandelion head, “Pee-the-bed! Pee-the bed!” Rubbing the yellow dust into each other’s Cheeks and chins as we kissed.
5 The bluebells had died and on the other side The nettle beds were filled with broken branches White as bone, clouds were tags of wool, the Night sky magenta sands with bands of gold And bright stars beckoned and burned like Ragged robins in a ditch and rich magnolias In East End Park.
6 I am alone in the dark Remembering Bonfire Night Of nineteen-fifty four When it was early dusk Your hair was gold As angels’ wings.
7 From the binyard in the backstreet we brought The dry stored branches, broken staves under The taunting stars and we have never left That night or that place on the Hollows The fire we built has never gone out and The light in your eyes is bright: We took the road by the river with a star Map and dream sacks on our backs.
8 The Hollows stretched into darkness The fire burned in the frost, sparks Crackled and jumped and floated Stars into the invisible night and The log glowed red and the fire we Fed has never died.
9 The catherine-wheel pinned to the palings Hissed and spun as we ran passed the railings Rattling our sticks until the stars had beat retreat.
10 From the night comes a figure Into the firelight: Margaret Gardiner My first, my only love, the violet pools Of your eyes, your voice still calling, “I am here, I am waiting.
” 11 Where the road turns Past St Hilda’s Down Knostrop By the Black Road By the Red Road Interminable blue And I remember you, Margaret, in your Mauve blazer standing By the river, your Worn-out flower patterned Frock and black Laceless runners 12 Into the brewer’s yard Stumbled the drayhorses Armoured in leather And clashing brass Strident as Belshazzar’s Feast, rich as yeast On Auntie Nellie’s Baking board, barrels Banked on barrels From the cooper’s yard.
13 Margaret, are you listening? Are your eyes still distant And dreaming? Can you hear My voice in Eden? My poems are all for you The one who never knew Silent and most generous Muse, eternal primavera Under the streetlamps Of Leeds Nine.
14 Margaret, hold my hand As we set out into the Land of summers lost A day-time ghost surrenders At the top of the steps To the Aire where we Looked over the Hollows Misted with memory and Images of summer.
We are standing on the corner of Falmouth Place We are standing by the steps to the Aire We are standing outside the Maypole Falling into Eden.
15 Falling into Eden is just a beginning Hoardings on the gable ends for household Soap, washing is out on the lines Falmouth Street full of children playing, Patrick Keown, Keith Ibbotson, the Flaherty Twins spilling over the pavements, holding A skipping rope, whirling and twirling; Margaret you never missed a turn While I could never make one, out before I began.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things