I come from a time when all fire engines were
called Dennis
And yoghurt was a special guest star on
supermarket shelves,
An era when opinions arrived in a trickle and
then drained away,
When you needed Vaseline for your jaw as it
banged on the floor
While you watched Neil Armstrong walk on the
moon – the moon!
I come from a time of The Lone Ranger and
William Tell, and the excitement
Of a burning map of Nevada, a dan-da-da-da
theme tune and four cowboys
Riding in from distant mountains and pines,
from the edges of my imagination,
A time of simple ambitions like Mose Harper’s
in search of a rockin’ chair,
When women in strait-jacket aprons would scrub
and polish front doorsteps.
I come from a time when most people got on with
earning a living and living
A life that they hoped would be decent,
trouble-free, blessed by God and quiet,
A time when neighbours knew each other and
community glue was gossip,
Black and white, when coal was delivered in
sacks and milk arrived in bottles,
When kettles hardly stopped boiling and pots of
stew simmered all day long.
I go back that far into nostalgia, to Doris Day’s
whatever will be, will be
And what did we think the future would be?
Simple? Complicated? Strange?
We harrumph that they were better times, better
than now, a better era,
The good old days sandpapered of all their
rough edges and smoothed down,
So that we can caress memories and hug them for
comfort at those moments.
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