I remember old Geordie Sharp
In his allotment by the beck
At the foot of the Dovefold Scarp
His garden on the lowest deck.
Where the soil was rich with humus
And old sediments of the beck
And as kids it would amuse us
To gaze: That’s all we could expect
Lush strawberries weren’t for free
Not that you’d call Geordie mean
His garden pure delight to see
But his resources were quite lean.
If you wanted a nice bouquet
For your Grandma’s place of rest
He’d oblige you any day
And his flowers were the best.
He charged me once a threepenny bit
(about one pence and two pence
between)
For a bunch of carnations fit
For the adornments of a Queen
Geordie’s now long dead and gone
Perhaps remembered in old stories;
The gas works allotments linger on
A shadow of their former glories.


Tony Kelly, Crook