This has been going round; it has so many possibilities, and I have been playing with it for a while - this is one of my versions. I believe the original was by George Ella Lyons - thank you.
I am from tablecloths, Mansion polish and hoovering.
I am from the small front room with its carpet square, and inadequate coal fire.
I am from the clipped hedge, thrift and honesty, the unwrapped crumpled silk of a hollyhock bud.
I am from caravan holidays and library books, from James and Maude, Harry and Mary Ann, William and Agnes.
I am from distance, intelligence, and not getting involved.
From 'not in front of the children', 'what do you want to do that for?', and 'what will the neighbours think?'
I am from absence from church, school prayers, right and wrong without sin.
I am from Hampshire, midland inns, Scottish mills, London and Derry, treacle tart and tea.
From the horse my grandmother rode in Brixton, the family Music Hall acts, the war-time bomb in the London street, my mother's frost-bitten thigh.
I am from neat albums and loose photos, jumbled in boxes and memories, faces once loved and familiar, but now unknown. Which of them gave me the green eyes and the love of making things?