It is Saturday morning and the time was then,
The waking village nestles in the autumn light
and a stillness broken only by the robin's song,
on the corner stands a boy with grubby knees
and it is I.

It is Saturday morning and the time was then,
and he stands at the doors of the redbrick shop,
the grocers shop by the roadside - looking over to Gayton hill.
He peers through the window and peeps inside,
coins tinkle in his pocket.
Above his head the sombre slates slant grey
against the bleak October sky.

It is Saturday morning and the time was then,
and the boy opens the big grey doors and scurries in
to the smell of hardware and paraffin, paint and bristle brushes.
Tea, bacon, cheese and coffee aromas fill his nostrils,
draw him in and make him feel at home.
And many homes are here - all represented and shared
over the counter stretching long and vast before him.
For the heart of Blisworth beats here,
where buckets hang from their ceiling hooks
with pots, pans and cheese graters, sweets chocolates and cakes.
What wonders lie among those shelves!

It is Saturday morning and the time was then,
and over the counter bar, besmocked and bespectacled
Mr. Young bustles, assured, in happy charge,
The boy watches as tins, bags and bottles pass before him,
coins jingle, tills ring, people chatter and laugh.
Spellbound he watches the drudgery of the day transformed before his eyes.

It is Saturday morning and the time was then,
now the boy stands at the counter which dwarfs his tiny frame,
He asks for his Mum's bread and a quarter of dividend tea,
with his errand complete he disappears out through the big grey doors.
In the still air his feet clipper-clap round the corner and out of sight.

It was Saturday morning and the time was then.
The boy has gone but the memory lingers
of feet that crossed that threshold through the big grey doors,
into the place that was the home of a thousand hearts.