Every now and then,
I take a look way back,
when I was maybe ten,
and I was tall enough to,
look out of the landing window,
below me if I tiptoed,
I could see the veg growing,
in my granddad’s backyard,

and beyond the alley way,
a huge green golf course,
where the rich whittle,
their time away,
just after the rich at play,
there stood the tower,
of the now gone funhouse,
next to which grew a swimming pool
in the days this town had some money,
and the North Sea stretches before me,
and the oil tankers line up,
to enter the so clean River Tees,
as turn to my left,
I see a speck which was the lighthouse,
dividing the sea from the Tees,
and from that very same window,
I could see the huge mass of tubes,
belonging to British Steel,
it was just one of the bastards who polluted,
the sorry town where my mum was born.
through that window,
I could see our toilet,
which was too far away,
if you had to run,
down all those stairs,
to the little boys room
will no plaster on the walls,
not much of a window in there,
pretty cold in winter too,
no need to hang around,
unless it was a number two,
this old house,
had many Victorian windows,
from the cellar to the top floor,
many rooms to dream in,
and doors where even more,
from the basement where ,
clothes were washed,
and pressed just like in the olden days,
in the small but crafty kitchen,
my gran would bake cakes and bread,
my granddad would oil paint in the other room,
or assemble things from pegs or seashells,
there was always something going on,
we are sorry we just did not learn it all,
the yorkshire puddings I try to make,
most times are a definite fail!
so reader you think I have left the tracks,
about the view from the landing window,
remember I am a wizard with words,
and now read the title well,
only window is written way up there,
and this is a poem about a window,
that I opened onto a moment in my past,
something that happened long ago,
and seemed over way too fast,
the house still stands with my uncle inside,
sadly my grandparents are no longer around,
the memories remain from my younger days,
from that north-eastern town,
I will no longer stand in that house,
with the many Victorian windows,
my future is now looking from further away,
another sea for me to explore,
my path now leads away from Cleveland UK.
and now I bathe on a different cleaner shore.

 

© D.Hobson April 2014