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.
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.
Share this:
Hues of Hankinson 
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.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wonderfully evocative and love the rhythm – yet at the same time it captures the bare basics of mill town life. Loved it
LikeLiked by 1 person
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.
LikeLike
I so adore the lilt and cadence of this!❤️
LikeLike
A peek into mill town life…and done in a charming way! I liked it very much.
LikeLike
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
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, I love it ~ You captured the spirit and innocence of those times ~
LikeLiked by 1 person
A main line to yesterday; fine job–so many versions & manifestations for the Suburbs.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I especially like the children playing in the streets… maybe that’s what we all remember…
LikeLiked by 1 person
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…
LikeLiked by 1 person
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!
LikeLiked by 1 person
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! 😎
LikeLike
Enjoyed the ride through mill town…seemed a simpler time, freedom within boundaries.
LikeLiked by 1 person