When I am alone and feeling blue, 
My thoughts return to the street I knew. 
It’s altered now, not for the best. 
It is clean, and modern and all the rest, 
But its character is gone, and nothing is left, 
Of the warmth, we knew, the love that was there, the home to rest, but in my memory it is always there, as clear and alive, precious and rare. 

A busy street, not posh, not clean, seamen from ships from ships were often seen. 
Buses going by every second, houses above shops, bay windows where friendships beckoned. 
Our house, a green door, was one of these. 
Where we cleaned our front step, front step down on our knees. 
A ghetto they called it, just near a port, with foreign seamen on leave for sport. 
But no harm was done, no muggings there, and crime on the whole was very rare. 
We were young then, the years flew past. 
But memories of home will always last. 

Up the stairs and in the room, where love and warmth was such a boon. 
The fire so bright, where mam and dad sat. One on the left and one on the right. 
A haven for us wherever we roam, 
such a heaven for us to return to our home. 
We knew there would be welcome and love galore, 
not much money, but comfort and more. 
The years have gone by, we are much older now. 
The family have differences, sometimes we row. 

But one thing in common we all can share, our old home with love in it that none can compare. 
Mam and dad we love you dear, you’re presence to us is ever near. 
That house, that street, will always be here. 
It is in my heart so very clear. 
I lock it away, as a precious gem, and I return to that place, every now and then. 
I turn back the years with not a few tears, for memories hurt and often sear, 
Fall all the heartaches, for all the pain. 
I long for my home, my street, dear Laygate Lane. 
  
Gladys Muckble, Daughter of Mohamed Ali Muckble