Welcome to my poetry: The True Salopian - My Dad

Last week on the 10^th of August would have been (he died in 1986) my dad’s birthday. He was born in Shropshire in 1907 and although they say Shropshire born and Shropshire bred, strong in the arm and weak in the head (or yed, as he would have said) he was far from stupid.

Even though he rarely attended school, he learnt from the University of Life, and a hard life if was. He was the son of a lay preacher (or ranter parson, as they were known in those days) and lived his entire life a stone’s (or stwun's) throw from where he was born.

He was a hard grafter, and maintained muscles like Tarzan from that everyday hard work. He was full of witty sayings, had a great sense of humour and a broad Shropshire accent, which I have to admit to having acquired. 

The True Salopian - My Dad

 Anyway, here’s my tribute to my dad.

The True Salopian

I’m an owd country bumpkin, a yokel, a hick,

I’m as common as muck and as thick as a brick,

I talks uth an accent, Shropshire and broad,

I’m as daft as a brush, and you’ll ‘ear me loff loud,

I chops sticks uth a brummock, ‘oned shiny and sharp,

And whatever the weather I’m up uth the lark,

I ‘ear the owd oolert ‘ootin’ long afore dawn,

I canna stand all them untinooks I finds in me lawn,

I climbs that owd wooden ‘ill when I’m gooin’ ta roost,

In me owd fither mattress where I’m warm as brown toast,

I goos shoppin’ in Shoosbry, there inna no ‘R’,

And if you all wants ta argue, there’s bound ta be war,

I plants me King Ed’ards, (best taters around),

On Easter’s Good Friday, in good cow mucked ground,

I brushes me ‘edges uth an owd brushin’ ‘ook,

I dunna ‘ave time fer readin’ papers or books,

Cos all of me knowledge is ‘ere in me yed,

And’ll be constantly uth me until I’m stwun jed,

I knows all of the seasons, come summer or snow,

I can read all the signs Mother Nature can show,

I watch fer the swallas ta arrive in the spring,

Listen out fer the cuckoo, ‘ear the speckled thrush sing,

I knows a good ‘arvest of berries is bleak,

Meanin’ ‘ard times fer birds in the cowd winter sleet,

I knows all the flowers which grace the ‘edgerow,

And the trees in the ‘oods, and which way the winds blow,

I knows the moon’s phases as it waxes and wanes,

I can smell where owd Raynard criss-crosses the lanes,

When I’m stung by a nettle it’s a spit and dock rub,

Then it’s wum I be gooin’ when it’s time fer me grub,

I’m resourceful; I’ve recycled since beginnin’ of time,

And as fer organic – the word should be mine,

A real countrymon’s gettin’ ‘arder ta find,

We’m a breed dying out, both in body and mind,

I be flyin’ the flag fer every ooman and mon,

‘Oo like me’s proud ta be a true Sal-op-i-an.

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

Welcome to my Poetry: On Linden Fields

With Olympic fever sweeping through the world it reminded me of August Bank Holiday Mondays when I was little. It was the day of my family’s annual outing to Much Wenlock Sports Day. Much Wenlock was six miles (9.6km in new money) from my home which nestled in the shadow of the notorious Shropshire beauty spot of Wenlock Edge. Here are my recollections of a boring day!

   On Linden Fields

August Bank Holiday! Much Wenlock Sports Day!

We donned our ‘best’, dad, mother and me.

Boulton’s bus whined over the rise,

Through the village, up Longville Hill,

Along Wenlock Edge, ‘There’s Ippikin’s cave and Major’s Leap!’

Between hedges dredged with lime, and down into the town!

Carnival jostled along, queen and princesses, prim,

Important for a day; then onto Linden Fields.

I stood, holding onto the rope which divided athletes from bums on seats. 

Bare legs whirred and muscles strained, furrowed brows sweated and pained,

Spiked shoes pounded the parched, cracked earth.

‘Hooray! Hooray!’ The winner exalted!

Smacked on the back, ‘Couldn’t be faulted!

Well done, my son!’

There we stood, dad, mother and me.     

I sweltered in my hand-me-down, ‘three bear’s syndrome’, gingham,

Too loose last year, just right this year, too tight next year,

That’s just how mother was.

More feet thundered by like rumbling buffalo on the plains,  

Puffed out chests gasping, heaving towards medals, gold, silver, bronze!

Aspirations! Congratulations! Commiserations!

Dr William Penny Brookes looked down!

Had his idea, in 1850, to promote

Moral, physical and intellectual improvement

Of the local inhabitants’of Much Wenlock and around been in vain?

I peered at dad, hand raised against the solar glare,

His bronzed biceps bulging, cap jauntily over one eye,

A lifetime of working the fields in the sun, wind and rain,

Lungs full of Shropshire country air, (and ten Players Navy Cut)!      

He needed no Olympics!

And neither did I.

‘Now please can we go home?’

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx

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