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The Bread Bin

It would stand on the bench, enamel white and trimmed with dolphin blue

When I was six or seven years old, I remember vividly,
Camping in Poulton Le Fylde, my two brothers, sister and me,
Brought up in the fifties we were seen and not heard,
And never spoken too.
So when we went on holiday, the bread bin held the clue.

It would stand on the bench, enamel white, and trimmed,
With dolphin blue, when laden with goodies and the lid,
Stacked high, this was our cue.
Ball games and skippies we used to play, the bread bin,
I clean forgot, it caught my eye, as I went by.
And I was out the door like a shot.

I would dash outside, my brothers and sisters to find,
To tell them we’re off camping, at Poulton Le Fylde.
We would travel down the A1, packed from bonnet to floor,
Pots and pans, and kids in the back.
And in no time you would hear us snore.

We would arrive very late, in our standard eight,
And unpack half asleep, looking for poles, and tent pegs,
And getting under our dad’s feet.
When I think about our bread bin enamel white and blue,
And those happy childhood days, a lid of treasured memories,
Has come pouring through.

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