The Spooncreel's End
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I saw that house …… your first abode-
It’s membranes into dust explode.
Felled! Dispatched from off the road;
                Ah Yes! I sighed;
And much surprised was I to trace
The area small , in terms of space
               It occupied.
HOME upon the mind emblazons
The many sentimental reasons
To retain our strong adhesions
              As life goes on.
Despoiling stone or wood or plaster, 
Is not the essence of disaster,
            The character’s gone.
As I recall, ‘t is many years
Since I ventured up these stairs;
The Halloween party and the scares
              That it brought.
The treacle scone above our head,
To jump and bite, or sing instead
              The fun it wrought.
Vivid memories, infant days,
Preserve and cherish then appraise,
Sweetening life’s more sordid ways,
               We move along.
Events that brought us all delight,
From early days are clear and bright,
              But long since gone.
Casual friendships I demean,
Compared with innocence so clean,
When child to child’s first touch has been
               So firmly fused;
Spontaneous actions that we dared
From childhood to the grave are shared,
               But not abused.
Down Inches Close, the washing green,
The summer seat staged many a scene;
On acting and dramatics keen
             We did perform.
Our jackets all turned inside out,
We’d prance and mime and sometimes shout
             In mock alarm.
Our childhood days so full of charm,
When summer seemed so long and warm,
We even revelled in the storm
             ‘Mid frost and snow,
No worldly cares or adult strains
While virile blood swept through our veins,
              In life’s young throw.
Old Maybole may have some day shone,
But like our homes the glamour’s gone,
We must regard it’s day as gone
               To those who work.
It’s still a pleasant place no doubt,
With natures mantle round about,
               I think I’ll lurk.
The Spooncreel with it’s selling strictures;
Thick Black, fish and Dolly Mixtures,
The shop as varied as the fixtures
               In Multi stores.
Had John Dent visualised this end,
The modern massive selling trend
              That always scores?
I would , my friend, I could have cheered,
But Oh dear me! The thing we feared,
Both the homes have disappeared
              Where we were born.
Parental care there concentrated
On the product they created,
              Was not forlorn.
Mature desires and resources
Soon influence men to alter courses;
Be it better or for worse
               We all agree.
Amongst objectives that we face
Our early years we’d all retrace,
           If that could be.
To me, the Spooncreel’s  passing, cast
These deep reflections on the past,
That will until my passing last
               In memories place.
I hope the Steeple won’t distort
For wan of Spooncreel’s strong support
               At it’s base.
                                          June 1967.

Poems of Arthur G. McColm

The Spooncreel's End Evacuating Doos at the Kirk Belfry Bobby and The Wartime Blackoot
An Encounter The Toothache The Glen Kirk Choir
Our Sacred Cause Lambie's Close The Ghost O'Drumley Hoose
Maybole and District The Ash Tree and The Varnished Door Burns and Splendid Isolation

Notes about these poems contributed by the author's daughter Anne McCrindle

Arthur McColmThese poems were written by my dad about Maybole and some of the characters from the town. Some poems were written for events and 'smokers' do's. Some serious some fictional and quite comical. Quite a few about Maybole in war time and his thoughts about the war. Dad was the last son born 1907 to Emily and Tom McColm. They lived in Montgomery Street till they moved to Ladyland Road, across from the school which later burned down in 1919. Dad was a slater and chimney sweep, well known in the town. He played in the Maybole burgh band for many years till it was disbanded. He later became a member of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Band. Sadly he died at the age of sixty in 1968, but has left us with many happy memories and treasures in his written words
Anne Mc Crindle (nee McColm) born in Maybole, daughter of Arthur Mc Colm and Maggie McKay.

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Copyright © Permission for display on this site granted by Anne McCrindle. You may view and download poems for personal use only. No other distribution or use of this text is authorized.