The Watercress Boy

Cold fingers bunch the cress that sits in tin bath under wash house window, butchers string does hold stems in tight crisp bundles to be packed in redundant pram frame.

   From that cottage of thatch on Hodwell green he walks, through alley and down lane he wanders on Friday evening, when rain did fall and sun did shine still would he trudge, that little boy of Ashwell

   To small thatched cottage where candle lit low ceiling rooms are resting place to hard working men of the land, to hand his customers those iron rich pepper tasting treats, the gift of ice cold water that bubbled through ancient chalk.

   Two bob the cost to own such village fare, the wife of mighty cheese in bread on midday lunch or on Sunday salad tables where family tales are told.

   For every week the same smiles he met, safe faces of those he knew and silver coin he did bag with service done. Water jugs full of cress in kitchens of oak beams and coal range he did produce.

  Brown, Livings, Gentle, Hall, Day, Bryant, Crump, so many Ashwell families and faces meet his knock, all will live in his mind for all his life and never a round will he forget. And now that cress does stand in waters cold and empty jugs do gather dust in larder and pantry corner, no more this boy walks the village or knocks those doors.