Chapter 3: Summer in the Fifties.

In them days of a summer Sunday
motor cars,
green and black and heather blue,
clicked cool beneath the church wall
of early morning,
reflecting gargoyle children
from convex chrome
till our doctor, striding out of Mass,
boomed: ‘Hul-lo, there, sunshine!’

In them days of a summer Sunday
girls cried:
‘Farmer, may we cross your golden river?’
while boys huddled at the kerb,
picking bubbled pitch between the setts,
moulding masks and men,
till this old woman screamed:
‘Yous lot, get off the cart road.’

In them days of a summer Sunday
Billy Cotton called
from open doors,
and through the gardens
wafted smells of cabbage and hot ovens
and New Zealand lamb,
arresting time,
till his band played:
‘Somebody Stole My Gal.’

In them days of a summer Sunday
old men
in belts and braces and voluminous pants
limped across cropped turf,
bent, bowled,
sweated and cursed
till they seen us and bellowed:
‘Gerr-ar-to-vit!’

In them days of a summer Sunday
golden girls,
long-legged, lissom, blinding in white,
leapt and ran
after a ball,
lobbing it over a net
and into it
till one of them, turning, asked:
‘Well, d’yer wanna photer or summat?’

In them days of a summer Sunday
rowdy lads
with Brylcreemed hair and vivid shirts
roped boats together
in convoy and sang
shanties on the boating lake,
mooring at the island,
laughing when this parkie moaned:
‘Bleedin’ young hooligans!’

In them days of a summer Sunday
families
grouped at the bandstand by the brook
or climbed Angel Hill for free
and listened to the band and hecklers
in woodsmoke on the hill,
till a feller come up and grabbed one.
‘Clever lad,’ he said.
‘Be a big help to your dad when you grow up.’

In them days of a summer Sunday
an aeroplane,
single-engined like a fly,
droned above the wire works,
beating the bounds
of happiness
towards a westering sun
till me mam said:
‘Your tea’s on the table if you want it.’