The television is droning
At best only half seen;
I'm almost asleep thinking
Of times that have been.
I can hear the Church trees bending
As wind howls and whistles outside,
Rug propped against a draughty door
To keep the heat trapped inside.
Mams sat reading Woman's Own
Dad's cleaning his twelve bore
I'm in front of the log fire
Curled up on the floor.
Dick Barton on the wireless for
Another of those cliff hanger ends
With Jock and Snowy his assistants,
Workmates and, surely, best of friends.
I'm listening enthralled sitting
On mam's new clippie rug
Hot, sweet cocoa steaming
From my little brown mug.
Farm house bread has been sliced
For that part I enjoy the most,
Dad says it's supper time and
I sit and help make the toast.
It's a school day tomorrow
And I'm a bit of a sleepy head
So it's finish drink and snack
And up the stairs to bed.
None of us kept late hours.
Farm labouring's a long day
And it's still early in the morning
When Dad's up and on his way.
A child of the nineteen forties when
Mams and Dads didn't have much leisure
So we had lots of family time and
Enjoyed our own simple pleasure.
Most nights now I sit be-tellied,
Centrally heated, maybe snoring;
Is it just my age or, these days,
Is modern life at times quite boring.
