Harold Wilson, Bradford boy

Strong, silent grandad.

Head a grey Elvis quiff.

Far away eyes.

Always ready for a cuddle.

So quiet. So still.

But ask him about his youth?

Eyes twinkle, lips smack,

Made a fishing rod from scrap,

Manhandled onto a trolley bus,

Old ladies tutt tutt,

Off fishing with a mate

Down Bradford beck

Out till late.

One oil lamp at home.

Outside lav with strung up roll.

You don’t look like your sister twin.

I knew your mum,

My great gran’mamma,

You have her grin.

She brung you up proper.

Top of Sunbridge Road,

Slums all gone now but

I still see you,

Tearing around.

Playing in rubble.

Grazing your knee.

Tanned be’ind.

Bread and drippin’ for tea.

 

© Jennifer Winterburn

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