I doan’t remember clearly
T’time as I’d getten mi fust pair,
S’as though I’d allus ‘ad ‘em.
Fra’ two yur owd t’ now,
In mi eighties,
They’ve allus bin theer.
They’re noisy an’ ‘eavy,
But after a shift in t’mill,
Eeh lad, they’ve comfort.
A bit o’ leather
A bit o’ wood,
A lifetime o’ mem’ries.
Kids wore ‘em for a while,
Grandchilder, not at a’.
Now, s’onny Morris Dancers ‘as ‘em.
No more
Sparkin’ th’irons
Up t’back snicket.
No more
Clitterin’ o’ t’ clogs on t’ setts.
No more cloggy-bogs,
When t’snow on t’clog bottoms
Teks thi three inches off t’floor.
I’ve still got mi fust pair,
T’tiny clogs on t’shelf.
They’ll not be wore again.
Owd mem’ries an’ lost generations,
Remembered onny
On t’pages o’ time.
T’time o’ clogs is gone.
Writing dialect poetry can be challenging. This piece was written from the point of view of an old man reflecting on his childhood, and how times change.
