Even snow turned quickly grey,
Like sheets hung limp on a washed-out day,
As charcoal clouds went floating past.
Winter birds were never fed,
Bone-hard gardens, left for dead,
But we were different – we had grass.
Every house looked just the same,
From charred, black earth grew weeds untamed,
That’s all they knew where we were born.
Bike wheels dumped and left to rust,
But our mother sprinkled magic dust,
Oh, we were kings – we had a lawn.
She scattered seeds and helped them grow,
So that, slowly, our horizons rose,
Above the stones and broken glass.
Our friends kicked lifeless, punctured balls,
On unforgiving, unloved walls,
While we played tennis – on our grass.
Across the street, the furnace roared,
As leaden men fired iron ore,
Yet all around them, hopes fell short.
Thanks to her, we broke away,
And when we left, they came with spades,
The neighbours stole our centre court.
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(This is a tribute to my mum. Thanks to her, we were the only house in our street – on a grey council estate among the slagheaps of Teesside – that had a lawn. On the day we moved out, the neighbours fought over the turf, and the police were called.)