Poetry

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Will i travel on,ships,boats or planes,or just
concentrate on the lanes,not the kind that motors
run on,but the kind was living in,cobbled stones,
or burnt bricks,or well worn ones,of broken flags,
not the kind where breezes flutter,but where feet may run instead of in the gutter,houses joined up
all to-gether,some with upstairs others never,one
large room families together,fires blazing in very cold weather,timber blocks,with turf bog,better so
long as they werent wetter,smoke would make your eyes just water,who cared plenty of stories,and
plenty of laughs,some tears as well,food was scarce
clothes were sparse,everyone was much the same when
we all lived down in the lanes,cant repeat those times again,GOD knows whats best for all,very good
people now gone to their final rest,for they most
certainly passed their test.
Joe.

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