Memories Poem by Laurena Pamela Willetts

I remember those early mornings
of looking out
over the smoke filled valley
from the bedroom window
of my small terraced house,
perched halfway up the mountain
, listening for the footsteps of the men
returning
from the nightshift at the local colliery

the hobnailed boots tapping
on the grey slate pavements
black faces blending into the darkness
the odd whistler,
the tired laughs,
familiar joking between lads
but now with tired voices.
I retreated to my bed and lay back,

Listening,
as the footsteps grew nearer,
for that harsh grating sound
as the key turned in the lock,
which now became comforting,
the darkness no longer scary
my bedroom now safe,
no bogey men under my bed
my father was home


LAURENA PAMELA WHITE [20/09/09]




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