Sitting in the dust of a road with no cars, of a 1950s Easter holiday in a suburb of grey concrete  council houses fit for           heroes: some of us dads had been POWs in Burma. We had lollypop sticks             to draw in the dust. Usually we     had    scabs on us knees, our clothes sometimes needed mending. We didn’t have a.         football. We kicked stones. We’d eaten   us tea early doors,  usually white sliced bread  toasted with marg & beans.We always said “Last out again.” Then our mums would call us, about half seven. Last out again. The people in this poem are now mostly dead. They received Christian burials, mostly in England and some ten pound poms in Australia.