Hebburn

 

Hebburn is a place on earth,

a sit-com

in my place of birth,

Where once I roamed

the building sites

to plunder wood

for bonfire night,

The wind blew cold

but we felt cool,

When ships were launched

they closed the schools.

 

With winters sharp

but memories sweet,

Like Franchi's fish shop

down the street,

The river roared

and factories clanged

While in the teeth

of gales we sang:

"The Quay school

is a very good school,

made of bricks and plaster,

The only thing

that spoils the school

is the baldy-heeded master!"

 

I loved the gentle hiss

of the little gas fire,

The soft pop of ignition

and blue flames,

The white chalky fireclay

filigree strands glowing red and

golden as slumbers,

Till patterns swirled

warm and endless as dreams.

 

Now childhood visions

help us place

and fix our hearts

in time and space,

More steel and stone and flame

than plastic,

Hawthorn Leslie's, Bitumastic,

Reyrolle's floodlights burning bright,

factories churning

day and night,

And telly programmes can't destroy

the memories

of girls and boys,

Of mams and dads

and fairs and toys,

Of playing out

and clarts and noise.

 

For life is like

a bird that flew -

A truth that Bede and Cuthbert knew -

The river's song played long before,

and still will sing

when we're no more.

Eternal dreams, imagination,

our stolen pasts a fascination,

Saints and scholars,

Vikings bold,

A timeless spell

that keeps ahold

of all who stayed

and we who roamed...

 

We won't forget

that this was home.