Three and ninepence ha’penny

The clanking of the mills
memories of tramping up
the grassy hills
the river banks
the tap of clogs
whippets and other dogs
some still here, but
most are thee’r where
the past lays dormant.

well only when
and that wasn’t too often

Grandma at the crown and star
a milk stout for the lady
maybe that’s the partial truth
when truth itself is in truth

sometimes slipping back a gear
to what year I can’t remember well
and just as well at sometimes too.

Veins that run through gold fields
where the
growing yields such treasure.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.