Why did we call it John’s Shop?

There was no sign of John

and the shop was a kitchen under the stairs.

Chipped mugs on a shelf

and a knocked about whistling kettle.

We were sixth formers

fifty years ago.

Mostly skinny.


to squeeze  together

chinking our mugs

dreaming of boys.


Why do I remember?


Today a drab church

and a coffin.

A light shower.

A safe eulogy to wife and Mother.

I thought of school days.

John’s Shop.

Her mug, her tea.

Her unknown future

And mine.


What becomes of us?


About rhymebydesign

Mother, grandmother, mainstream poet and short story writer. Started off in life as a teacher, but then moved out of the classroom in to educational administration. Curious about what makes people tick, including my own tickings! I enjoy long walks, thought provoking books, theatre and leading a simple life. I offer a customised poetry writing service for any occasion you might like to mark. Contact me at for a quick quote.

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