OLD MAN HARGREAVE’S DONKEY
Along the back lane where granny Goodwin dwelt alone,
The houses terraced and grimy that poorer folks called home,
There among the smoke stacks and dirty walls there was a prize,
A donkey, I think, made of clay and of great humungous size.
To the children that used to come there was magic in the air,
Maybe it was the straw hat with holes for ears he did wear,
Or his rope tail, we were told, would drop out if a storm came,
And it helped his flowers grow every time it poured with rain.
On his back a pannier he carried a wonderful joy for us to see,
Always full of flowers from March to when snow flew free,
First filled with snowdrops, forget-me-nots and lily of the valley,
The fragrancy on the cool spring air quite far would always carry
In a place where the industry made cleaning such hard work,
And all the regular gardens around in some fog did often lurk,
But in summer with flowers of colours so very grand and bright,
The dear old donkey was to all who saw nothing but delight.
There were shortage of volunteers to keep him nice and clean,
Even the bully’s came and others who could be rather mean
Wanted to wash Desmond, that was the donkey’s name,
And as we all washed him down none of us felt the same.
As he stood and let us wash him those flowers close by,
There was always one thing different that made me sigh,
A crown of thorns at Easter replace his old straw hat,
We were told the thorns was what spring was all about.
I often see the donkey if I close my eyes and dream,
See all the great flowers and him always being so clean,
Remember the straw hat with his ears poking through,
But at Easter the message of the atonement came through.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson 24 May 2006