A Brummie Childood Remembered
Oh deeply missed, you Bull Ring, miscellany of stalls,
A youth remembered, clutching coat hem, wide-eyed.
Wigs, salami, gaudy rings, old shoes, the raucous Brummie calls,
Bouncing off the walls.
“’ ’andy carrier!” Thickly yelled, and “Apples a pound pears!”
A language understood by all, a Midlands code in grey old Brum
Co-existent with the church
Cups of orange tea, chips, prayers.
The big red buses veering madly through the melee, blocking roads
The smell of diesel, dripping raincoat, Hippodrome –
“One Night Only – Frankie Laine!”
Peered at through the rain.
Lewis’s with its rubber road and magical roof top gardens
Where Uncle Holly Christmas time dispensed largesse
Along with tiny Brummie elves
Playing themselves.
Further back again, the smog, a grey-green poison, part of play;
Where we would hide and breathe in death
And smell its fumes in muffled day.
And creep and grope our homeward way.