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,