The Rose

by Amanda McBroom  b.8/9/47

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger,

An endless aching need.

I say love, it is a flower,

And you its only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It's the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It's the one who won't be taken,

Who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dying

That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long,

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose.

The above poem was added to the blog on Tuesday 5th February 2019

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This is a photo of a tenement back court in Springburn, Glasgow taken some time in the 1950s. The building in the foreground is the wash house.

The wash house was an important facility for tenement-dwellers. Inside, there was a big boiler heated by a coal fire and either a sink or a wash tub in which the clothes could be scrubbed by hand. Having been washed, the clothes were squeezed through a wringer and then hung out to dry in the back court.

If the weather was bad, you might have to dry your washing indoors. In the kitchen/living room of each house there was a pulley (two or three wooden rails) suspended from the ceiling; it could be lowered by ropes and then, with the damp clothes suspended, raised again.

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When I was very young my Saturday penny often went to buy another toy soldier for my tin fort. Made of metal, about 4cm in height, the soldiers were brightly painted - black busbies, red jackets and dark blue trousers. Unusually my fort was also home to one or two cowboys and I remember a red Indian.

Like most boys at that time, I had a number of Dinky Toys. Modelled on real cars, vans, lorries and buses, those were much more expensive than the soldiers, and so it was only occasionally that one was added to my collection.

When playing with toys, I had a vivid imagination. While my pals all knelt down and pushed their little cars along the pavement, I remained standing, holding my car at eye level, for I could clearly see the imaginary road along which my car was speeding.

Both my sister and I were pretty good at “make believe”. When very small, she would sit for ages on the floor playing with loose papers and making up stories in a whisper to herself. As for me, a couple of clothes pegs (not the kind with metal hinges) could become people, the little round bit being the head and the two prongs their legs. Also if one of the pegs was fitted in to the other at right angles, the result was an aeroplane.

And when I was really tiny, I could content myself with an old biscuit tin full of discarded buttons, arranging them in different patterns on the carpet.

Who needs toys if you have a good imagination?

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