I moved to Corsham when I was four, a number 3 was on the door.
The house seemed large to a small curly haired boy, but Ann would be there to play with a toy.
Grandpa was coming to live with us too, in grey woolly waistcoat with a large mint or two.
The grandfather clock ticked loudly for all, day and night it chimed from the hall.
The passers by running down the steep hill, a train to catch you could hear the shrill.
My sister was skipping outside with a friend or playing hop- scotch until Mum called.
Dad was at work in the Stone Masons yard, I would run at lunchtime to find him,
The man on the saw or working the crane would loudly announce my coming.
The beautiful fields at the back of the house a seasonal larder of dreams,
We wandered in peace, played lovely games, to the sound of the mighty steam trains.
But the Station has gone, the Stone Yard is closed and the Station Hotel stands no longer.
The fields have been built on with rows of brick houses to replace cows and haystacks from yonder.
But memory remains, green fields and trains, and Dad in his Stone Yard still carving,
The time is on pause and I’m full of applause, my evidence – ‘life’s memory shavings’!
Paul Smith, September 2015