THE PREFAB

The prefab houses stark and grey,
In my childhood memories they do stay.
My earliest days when I was young,
To vivid pictures of them I've clung.

The corrugated profiled roof,
Was always there throughout my youth.
The iron windows, the twisted one,
Thick with ice of winters gone.

Lupins and marigolds in the garden we grew,
Of cabbage and turnips we had quite a few.
The man right across a hen hut he had,
He’d keep us in eggs, some good and some bad.

The little kitchen warm and cosy,
The blackleaded range your cheeks would make rosy.
The big white sink so deep and wide,
She kept it clean, my mothers pride.

The living room so cold and bare,
Just one small fire threw out its glare.
The oak sideboard with plates and mugs,
The bare black floor with old peg rugs.

The inside toilet (weren't we posh),
When people saw it they said “gosh”!
A bathroom too is what we had,
A weekly bath was not too bad.

A bedroom to myself I had,
When growing up this made me glad.
A bed and a toy box were all that were there,
No pictures on wall and floor so bare.

And then one day my mum did say,
In the prefab we’d no longer stay.
Around the corner we would go,
To 49 at the end of the row.