There never were hay fields, firmly etched in my

childhood’s fondly cherished memories,

no rural idylls nurtured

our growing through formative years.

Between us and the open fields

barbed wire swung idly in the

breeze across gaps torn

in tired hedges, by such means

they tried keeping us outside.

Beyond, open fields

were freshly ploughed, ready

for new plantings of modern,

orderly rows of neater public housing.

Memories, carefully cherished since,

were formed of grey slag heaps,

waste material brought up from coal mines,

heaped high like dark hay ricks.

Great wheels turned, raising up cages from the deep.

Across the valley they were shadowed

by distant steel mills’ hazy outlines

in fading Autumn’s sun.

We had playgrounds, ruins cruelly crafted

By bombs falling from enemy planes

In terrible days long before.

Ruined houses gave us fine cellars

to hide in, broken stairs reached

skywards begging little feet to climb

Crumbling concrete pathways were our hedgerows.

even higher, always seeking new thrills.

Yet bees buzzed for us too, butterflies fluttered by,

where wildflowers flourished, brightening old rubble,

scenting Autumn evenings where we played.