There's not much point in cleaning the ashes.
And getting rid of the trash.
There is nothing to make a fire with.
For my dad has got no cash.
Well, can't we get the bike out.
And get a couple of sacks.
Go on Nana, get your clogs on.
We'll go down to the railway tracks.
The bike rim in a rut.
We were both muddied up to the eyeballs.
We nearly fell in the cut. ( canal )
We scrambled up the banking.
My Nana scraped her knee.
I slipped down and cut my hand.
It always happened to me.
One nutty slack and one with coke.
My Nana took it serious.
I thought it a joke.
She would sling them on her shoulder.
She did it on her own.
A feat that was amazing.
She weighed but seven stone.
That too, a very good feat.
With one sack over the peddles.
And the other over the seat.
It seems impossible now to think.
How a woman of four foot ten.
Could push a bike with all that weight.
Time and time again.
There always was a buyer.
That night we had some food.
We also had a fire.
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Copyright © 1998 Jeff Unsworth