I remember mother’s beauty and her coal stained and cracked hands
Each little line was etched in black, like a map to other lands
She always wore an apron that she made from an old dress
How I loved my mother,I did I must confess.
I remember mother’s beauty and the row of nappy pins
She always wore them like a brooch, while we kids made a din
The baby had her rusks and milk, she had a little pot
She slept inside a cradle then she moved into a cot
I remember most Mam’s cooking, the apple dumplings steamed
The kettle too sat on the fire , I played and then I dreamed
She had a tin of buttons, she was ace at making clothes
She knitted like an acrobat to forget her many woes
Her daddy was a miner till he had a heart attack
He came home black and dusty, then he filled his old tin bath
When he retired he got a dog, he loved her very well
He called her Lassie for her name, she was beautiful , my belle
Her daddy came to see us after our own daddy died
He helped our mother with odd jobs, then we all ate scones and cried
If
In Rugeley, as in many other working-class towns, identity – particularly male identity – was at one time something that was forged by work, something that was shared¨
How my heart sings 