Remember Rosy's Shop?

A poet's memories

By Ian Abbott

Rosy Dyers Shop

A glorious emporium, bursting at the seams

From dusty quarry floor, to worm riddled beams.

To children such as me, the window really was the best

Not displayed but scattered just like a treasure chest.

The old bell rang on entry bouncing on its curly spring

I’d look round in amazement in awe of everything

Through her puppet theatre peering, wrinkled old and grey

‘What can I get you my love?’ Was what she’d always say.

The shop was open, so it seemed, right around the clock

Never moving from her seat, surrounded by her stock

There were writing pads and boot laces

pans and plates and pencils

There were tins of beans and soup and fruit

haberdashery and lentils.

That tiny shop sold everything that you could ever need

From pear drops, liquorice and penny chews to balls of aniseed.

Brushes, buckets, soap and toys whatever caught your eye

There were few things in that shop that she could not supply.

To her grave went Rosy as that’s the way it goes

Sadly, No longer ‘Open all hours’,

no more shop,

no Rose.