Hopping in Kent
I remember......The aroma of newly picked hops,
Old Holborn and Golden Virginia wafting on the breeze,
The smell of freshly brewed tea,
Swirling camp fire smoke and black hop stained fingers,
I remember......
The poll puller,
The bin man,
The farmer and Prince his horse,
The Romanies and Cockneys,
All singing, all whistling,
All day long,
I remember.....
The rain,
The mud,
Wet hop bines.
Upside-down umbrellas full of water,
The cold wind,
Chapped fingers and scarred hands,
Babies crying and children moaning,
I remember.....
Men drinking brown ale,
Women drinking brown ale,
Cheese sandwiches with pickled onions,
Mugs of Tizer for the kids,
Eating roast hedgehog with blackberries,
Tins of Ambrosia creamed rice with jam,
Gobstoppers and liquorice sticks,
I remember.....
Kissing Susan in the oasthouse loft,
Susan kissing me in the oasthouse loft,
Chasing the hop leaves down the lane,
Swinging from the apple trees in the orchard,
Skidding stones across the farmers pond,
Calling old fatty Hoscroft "Fatty" and running away,
Cutting my knee on the hop cart wheel,
Laughing at my mate who was bitten by a horse fly,
Feeling sorry when he was taken away,
Crying when I learnt the truth,
I remember.....
Gypsy caravans and smiling faces,
Sad faces at the end of "hoppin",
I thought I would see the Gypsy's again,
I never did,
But I still remember.
Poetry by JohnJohn
Read 682 times
Written on 2016-06-17 at 17:34
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