Three Generations

Three generations of worker looked up in the fall of the mid-morning sun

United in theme for maybe the first time, focused on getting it done

Signaled as one with a rap on the pain, then summonsed to wait at the door

Smuggled out delph and buttery brack. We wolfed what we got and then more

There was one bag of crisps for the gossin while meself and me father abstained

Then the warning went up to start digging again for it wouldn’t be long till it rained

But the clouds held tight for the afternoon and the three of us got to be men

Like the buttery brack I’ll have more of that should it ever be offered again




A poem about digging the foundations of a garden shed. Who’d have thought we’d find each other?

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