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 ramblings and things

To Fill The Pot

Dad laboured on a farm
I went with my mother
During school holiday
As she cleaned at another.
I suppose life was hard
But as kid you don't know
So long as your feet are dry and
Your backside doesn't show.

Got a shotgun at age twelve
Which didn't exactly thrill
I never liked the idea
Of going out to kill.
It wasn't for the pleasure
But to fill the family pot:
Not a thing was wasted
We ate everything we shot.

Big coat with poachers' pockets
To hide any illegal game
Walking alongside dad
Dressed just the same.
My four ten folded
Making its size just right
To slip in another pocket
Kept safely out of sight.

PC Patsy Fagan
Would often drive by
More often than not
He'd turn a blind eye
Sometimes he'd stop
But he didn't really linger
Wound down the car window
To wave an admonitory finger.

We ate pigeon hare and rabbit
Sometimes fat goose or wild duck
It all depends on the season and
How good was that days luck,
We didn't really push it
Because the keeper was keen
It could cause a bit of trouble
If we were too often seen

And then I grew up
And came that final day
That I packed my meagre bag
And went on my way.
I went into the army where
I learned different ways to kill
But just as before the
Thought didn't really thrill.

My East Yorkshire village.
Had so much to give
I took it all with joy but
Never went back there to live.
These day s I think a lot about
The village and mam and dad
They weren't really good old days
But still  some of the best I've had

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