GARSTON TOWN

 

Cobbled streets, wet and black,

Chimney smells take me back,

The tanyard stink that hung like fog,

The eerie howl of Johny potts dog,

 

The gasworks hiss I knew so well,

St. Michaels graveyard, Holy’s bell,

The wagons roar down King street road,

The big cranes clank, as they unload,

 

Floppers take in milk and news,

Mrs Mac in her worn out shoes,

The young lads running of the docks,

Kids go to school in unruly flocks,

 

Silvercross prams outside the doors,

Non of them locked and linoleum floors,

Steps being scrubbed every day,

Starch white curtains in the wind sway,

 

 

The local bobby on his beat,

His uniform black and dark yet neat,

Checking on all to see who’s good,

Keeping watch on his neighbourhood,

 

Larsons shop is open the same,

As where all the shops on window lane,

The Rag the Blue the Woodcutters club,

Not forgetting the Canterbury pub,

 

It was the Vic that I knew well,

Me nan used to sit and often tell,

Stories of her youth and times,

And working on the factory lines,

 

My granddad, well, arrived by boat,

And wearing his best overcoat,

From the emerald isle he did flee,

At the age of only ten plus three,

 

At just fifteen, war he went,

Letters of love he often sent,

Me nan waited patient and the pages she read,

and after the war they got wed,

 

In fourty eight my mum was born,

New years eve, there was a storm,

Whitley street, in Garston town,

Where she grew up and settled down.

 

 

Under the bridge, it’s not remote,

Gods little acre someone wrote,

Working class people, a community tight,

A safe place to walk late at night,

 

It’s now all changed as time has proved,

Houses knocked down and people moved,

But the spirit lives in Garston folk,

Residential pride, without chimney smoke,

 

Because times have changed and modernised,

The cobbled streets now demised,

The docks stand still, no more clank,

And the Mersey claims the empty bank,

 

The gasworks remain, but no more hiss,

That comforting sound I really miss,

Silvercross prams replaced by cars,

Starch white curtains gone instead its bars,

 

Sign of the times it’s changing more,

No linoleum now its carpeted floor,

King street road dormant  yet great,

Where the tanyard stood a new estate,

 

Window lane shops nearly gone,

Same for the clubs and pubs but one,

The graveyard still sits on Banks road ridge,

Watching over people under the brdge,

 

Most of this gone, but in my mind still,

As I look on this place from the dock hill,

I’m filled with happiness pride and cheer,

Coz I’m made from MUD, and MUD came from here.

 

By Christina Ford