Biscuit Tin (Poetry)

As far as I can now recall
it was my first school outing —
a coach trip to far-off Reading
for a visit to their famous factory
Huntley & Palmer — names synonymous
with the making of tradition’s very
finest tea-time assorted biscuits

I was seven, or perhaps eight
so that would have been in
the late nineteen fifties
and for me it was a novelty —
the coach ride all that way
for my father was a railwayman
(white collar though) and when travelling
our family always obeyed the motto ‘let
the train take the strain’

The factory was huge, it seemed to me
I don’t remember much about the tour
except when we were leaving every child
was presented with a dinky biscuit tin
as a souvenir that held small samples in

I’m guessing quite a few were scoffed
during the long coach ride home
but I saved mine — eked out the treat
for weeks then kept the empty tin
the illustrated lid a painter’s view
of that factory — so impressive in its day

A use was found for it — storage of small things
before being relegated from house to shed
spending years on a high shelf holding nails
instead of biscuits while slowly rusting
lid flaking, hinges breaking — no use any more
thrown out at some point and forever lost
to all but memory that’s slowly rusting too
even while picking nostalgically through
the few bright scattered crumbs that still remain ...