Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

I was brought up in a terraced house
That once was built for miners
It was no palace but was home
And as such there was no finer

Two rooms below and three above
All were very small
And leading to the front room
Was a tiny narrow hall

The front room had a window
That looked out to the street
And as it was the best room
Was always kept quite neat

In the back, a kitchen
Just a cooker and sink
But the tap held pure Welsh water
Pure heaven in a drink

The yard was just a postage stamp
With a line from front to back
And at the end the back door
Right next to the Ty Bach

The line raised on a pulley
And was always full of whites
Blowing in the keen wind
Like a dozen snowy kites

The walls each side were low
And on it Mam would lean
To have a little gossip
After she’d brushed the garden clean

We kids would just hop over
At any time of day
To visit with our neighbours
And with their kids to play

Out the back door in autumn
To pick blackberries in the lane
And Mam would bake a tart
The likes I’ll never see again

Yes, my little terraced house
That once was built for miners
Is the home I loved so dearly
Small maybe, but there is nothing finer