Di.Poppitt
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
If you sat in the garden on Sunday there was always a lovely sound nearby, of a lawnmower being trundled up and down a lawn. You could hear birds singing against its gentle sound. Now the lawnmower is hard on the ears, when ours is gobbling up the grass I want to get away from the noice it makes.
Behind walls of some of the smallest of front gardens in Brum there was always a privet hedge. Some were green and others yellow, they were clipped to perfection into a square. The shears were kept oiled and sharp, and dads arms were toned to do the job, but it was mom who swept the clippings from the pavement. The job was done, dad was off to the Aston for his well earned Sunday pint.
Behind walls of some of the smallest of front gardens in Brum there was always a privet hedge. Some were green and others yellow, they were clipped to perfection into a square. The shears were kept oiled and sharp, and dads arms were toned to do the job, but it was mom who swept the clippings from the pavement. The job was done, dad was off to the Aston for his well earned Sunday pint.