I saw that house …… your first abode-
It’s membranes into dust explode.
Felled! Dispatched from off the road;
Ah Yes! I sighed;
And much surprised was I to trace
The area small , in terms of space
It occupied.
HOME upon the mind emblazons
The many sentimental reasons
To retain our strong adhesions
As life goes on.
Despoiling stone or wood or plaster,
Is not the essence of disaster,
The character’s gone.
As I recall, ‘t is many years
Since I ventured up these stairs;
The Halloween party and the scares
That it brought.
The treacle scone above our head,
To jump and bite, or sing instead
The fun it wrought.
Vivid memories, infant days,
Preserve and cherish then appraise,
Sweetening life’s more sordid ways,
We move along.
Events that brought us all delight,
From early days are clear and bright,
But long since gone.
Casual friendships I demean,
Compared with innocence so clean,
When child to child’s first touch has been
So firmly fused;
Spontaneous actions that we dared
From childhood to the grave are shared,
But not abused.
Down Inches Close, the washing green,
The summer seat staged many a scene;
On acting and dramatics keen
We did perform.
Our jackets all turned inside out,
We’d prance and mime and sometimes shout
In mock alarm.
Our childhood days so full of charm,
When summer seemed so long and warm,
We even revelled in the storm
‘Mid frost and snow,
No worldly cares or adult strains
While virile blood swept through our veins,
In life’s young throw.
Old Maybole may have some day shone,
But like our homes the glamour’s gone,
We must regard it’s day as gone
To those who work.
It’s still a pleasant place no doubt,
With natures mantle round about,
I think I’ll lurk.
The Spooncreel with it’s selling strictures;
Thick Black, fish and Dolly Mixtures,
The shop as varied as the fixtures
In Multi stores.
Had John Dent visualised this end,
The modern massive selling trend
That always scores?
I would , my friend, I could have cheered,
But Oh dear me! The thing we feared,
Both the homes have disappeared
Where we were born.
Parental care there concentrated
On the product they created,
Was not forlorn.
Mature desires and resources
Soon influence men to alter courses;
Be it better or for worse
We all agree.
Amongst objectives that we face
Our early years we’d all retrace,
If that could be.
To me, the Spooncreel’s passing, cast
These deep reflections on the past,
That will until my passing last
In memories place.
I hope the Steeple won’t distort
For wan of Spooncreel’s strong support
At it’s base.
June 1967.
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These poems
were written by my dad about Maybole and some of the characters from the
town. Some poems were written for events and 'smokers' do's. Some serious
some fictional and quite comical. Quite a few about Maybole in war time
and his thoughts about the war. Dad was the last son born 1907 to Emily
and Tom McColm. They lived in Montgomery Street till they moved to
Ladyland Road, across from the school which later
