The Potter's Daughter Poem by Peter Strugnell

A row of terraced houses frozen in time,
down the embankment was the old railway line,
we'd walk to the shore down track and meadow,
through open fields of golden yellow,
a well trodden pathway down to the sea,
with the potter's daughter for sweet company,
these were the best times I ever knowed,
when we lived down Lower Grove Road.

People and places and the emotion it evokes,
we'd all meet up down the Royal Oak,
the garden of flowers and carrots and courgette,
the way we were I shall never forget,
nostalgia is a woman who has the lot,
a woman who promised more than we got.
we're easily fooled by what we desire,
and nostalgia is a seductive liar.


The wind chime swinging in the breeze,
we we solid, we was thick as thieves,
ev'ry Friday night I'd play in Jon's band,
we'd walk a mile and I'd take your hand,
strolling arm in arm down by the old mill,
I remember us then, I remember it still,
we colour the past as it would transpire,
and nostalgia is a seductive liar.

The blackberry blossom, the smell of sea air,
the colours and sounds of the travelling fair,
cosy nights in, with a bottle of wine,
naked in the moonlight our bodies entwined,
I knew I was happy then, (you don't always know) ,
we were quite beautiful shining in the afterglow,
we dress the past in idealistic attire,
but nostalgia is a seductive liar.