Terraceville-Living in the Valley.

The train clatters down the track

Clickety clack clickety clack

To deliver the coal and slack

From the pithead.

 

Smoke emanates from the dirty stack

Wives hanging washing out the back

From the outhouses of the back to backs

In Terraceville our suburban mill-town.

 

Kids play in the street and no- one cares

Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares

Be late for supper. Free from care

Because they are always there,

And we are taught to share

With each other.

 

Got no money put it on tick

Misbehave and you get the stick

Get drunk Friday and you’ll be in the nick

In our suburban mill-town.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

The photos are from the Peter Fisher Archive and gallery….and this was where I grew up.

Peter fisher gallery

 

This is an attempt…. of sorts for poetics….for d’Verse poetics… I am not sure I achieved…it was not something I normally do…but we are here to learn…. so I have given it a go.

d’verse poetics suburb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: alisonhankinson

I am a school teacher and a mum and a red cosmic skywalker, and sometimes a netball coach...but beneath it all I am a writer...

13 thoughts on “Terraceville-Living in the Valley.”

  1. The tidily of the suburbs, in history, and in my opinion, lasted too short. So much in your poem that makes me envious and nostalgic, especially this part:”Kids play in the street and no- one cares

    Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares

    Be late for supper. Free from care

    Because they are always there,

    And we are taught to share

    With each other.”. Even in the suburbs, now I cannot give the same coziness to my son.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I liked the double repetition of “our suburban mill-town” between stanzas describing Terraceville. The last stanza with “tick”, “stick” and “nick” used those words in new ways for me and gave this place a uniqueness in my mind.

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  3. I like your picture here, the train clickety clacketing, laundry drying and probably getting soiled from the smokestack at the same time. I wasn’t raised there, but the realities are the same as my youth. Be late for dinner and you’re in it. Thanks

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I sooo adore the rhythm, almost like the movement of the train passing through time…thoroughly enjoyed the ride….”Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares / Be late for supper. Free from care / Because they are always there, / And we are taught to share / With each other.” my favorite lines…

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I love those photos, Alison! I also love the rhyme, rhythm and sounds of the poem: the clatter and clickety clack of the train. You’ve given it such a sense of place, that I didn’t really need the photos to see it in my mind’s eye. I know those terraced houses, the back yards, outhouses and washing that you can see from the train. I remember those days when kids played in the street and no one cared, and i can hear that echo of mothers hollering – no-one ever dared to be late!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Photos really compliment your words here. I read it a second time .. the rhythm and sounds add to the feel of the old mill town. Good descriptive details too.
    I’m late to the posting and reading for this prompt. Have to double-back to reading Haibun also. Last week in Bermuda — outside a lot! 😎

    Like

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