©Worcestershire Building Preservation Trust
Poems
The following poems were developed in a Poetry workshop, run in October 2016, by Heather Wastie, the Worcestershire Poet Laureate, 2015/16
Heather commented about the poems: Sweetshop poems - In the workshop we discussed whether A Wakefield would have been a man or a woman. Both Kathy and Maggie decided on Mrs Wakefield.
Keep Your Hands Where I Can See Them
We leave their noisy grown-up world
of market hubbub, bang and barter,
tumble through in twos and fives.
A nodding doorbell bounds
the magic, shades where spells are cast
and every breath becomes a fairy tale.
The air is thick, infused by sugar
boiling in the outhouse, sticky-sweet
and warm against our nostrils.
We lift eager eyes to Mrs Wakefield,
stern and aproned, forearms resting
on the red wood counter, framed
by chocolate, aniseed and pear drops
,
love hearts, sherbet dabs and wine gums.
We want bags of four-a-penny shrimps,
or gob stoppers that change their colour
as we suck and lick, and check and look.
She likes our pennies, but she’d rather
sell in shillings. Truffles, toffee, gilded boxes.
Mrs Wakefield prides herself on Quality.
The Sweet Shop
Her children were borrowed.
Each day, after school, the shop bell jangled
and for ten minutes her front room was
filled with laughter. Child after child
pointing chalky fingers at the sight of
glass jars, promising hidden delights,
standing to attention on wooden shelves.
Smells of syrup and strawberries mingled
with dust as boys and girls tingled when
sherbet dips hit lips. Love Hearts and Violets
squashed together in the “tupenny drawer”
fruit salad chews and Bobos in the ha’penny one.
Coconut ice, Spanish Gold, liquorice, were lit
by the sun that streamed through onto
faded carpet where faded dreams of family
became reality for ten minutes every day.
The Weaver's Daughter
No fairy stories nor longed-for dreams;
life is exactly as it seems – hard.
More an employee than a daughter
she fetches water, cleans as best she can,
needs to help her tired Mam.
Father’s word is law and once the floor
is swept, she climbs the stairs
to the room where the loom dictates
her life. Strife is all she knows; long hours
and the smell of dust. Not for her flowers
on a Spring morning but a day dawning,
filled with intricate detail, back-breaking
movements and aching legs. But there was
food on the table, just, and the knowledge
that she must learn her trade well.
Selling Bombazine their goal.
She is unaware that a different world
exists outside her door, not one where
the poor perish, but where the rich relish
the skills they never see.
A Penny’s Worth
A whole penny was what Grandad gave.
Should I spend or should I save?
A penny round, hard and warm,
A bit of love in copper form.
Treasure should be exchanged for treasure
And today, weight is the way to measure-
To Wakefields, then! For luxury!
And choose the best confectionery!
The jangling bell loud as I opened the door
To delicious aromas, and colours galore!
Wide eyed I stare at the wealth that’s there.
At the altar of wood I worshipped sweet goods.
Mr Wakefield’s eyes were kind. He smiled.
Amused to see this child beguiled.
My words to him came out a whisper
(doffed cap, dropped gaze) “good morning, Mister”
“What can I get you, lad, today?”
The question asked, but was hard to say.
I lifted up small currency
“Oh, please sir, I don’t mind any!”
Then the confectioner showed his skill
To scoop and weigh and bag to fill.
Swiftly he chose a little of many
I’m sure what he gave was worth more than a penny!
The deed done, exchange was made
Plunder grasped, farewells conveyed.
Right out the door, right at the junction
I ran and I ran I’d brook no interruption
Left at the cobbles and run down the hill
Holding on tight so my treasures won’t spill!
And gasping, I entered through grandad’s back door
My boots making noise on the quarry tiled floor
Grandad’s face broke into his lopsided grin,
“You’ve sweets? In that case you’d better come in!”
I opened the bag, and in words unrehearsed
“Here y’go grandad, you can go first.”
Top to bottom
Second storey windows.
Light for the making.
Light on rapid fingers,
twilling silk and wool.
Sharp eyes to make
best bombazine
for wealthy widows
wearing crucifixes
weighed with sorrow.
Down the staircase,
shadows sleep together.
Some will die too young
to learn the weaving,
dream of service,
inheriting a widow’s
cast-off weeds,
to wear with pride
and tinplate fairings.
Ground floor – fire
when there are wages,
cold when windows flap
with sacking, darkness
lit by an open door.
In bad times, hardship
haunts the room, leaves
little for their bread,
potatoes, tea and gin.
The women call
on Spanish priests
who buy their cloth,
send whispered prayers
for ‘light that shineth
in the darkness’.
Sweet Excess
Mmmmmm……
First some shrimps!
Then, tiny “imps”
Fruit salads, four
Or maybe more!
Some liquorice laces
And sweet necklaces
My favourite! Coconut ice!
Or maybe chocolate mice?
Oooo! I’m never eating sweets again!
The price of pleasure is definitely pain!
I’ll fall asleep, forget those sweets
But instead I dream – of peppermint creams!