This is a poem written by a lady who had to give up her child for adoption back in "the good old days." She's never forgotten her child even though it happened 37 years ago.

People talk of the good old days
Memories, some folk are very selective,
Others are far more subjective.
A family secret forever hidden
Painful memories are strictly forbidden.
You were called Matthew,
I bet that's been changed.
The workhouse "for your own good" mind
Mother and baby home, sounds better; more kind.
"You can't keep it" forget the notion,
Forms to sign, adoption in motion.
"Hurry up I've things to do"
More important than the likes of you.
Not my child's life or my pain,
Sent away, all alone I sat on that train.
They were disgusted I brought them shame,
Not even allowed to use my own name.
Life back then was so very hard,
Not for me a gift or card.
No council house with furniture too
Or social services ''we will care for you".
I have a son and nobody knows,
He is now a man and fully-grown.
He will be 37 in September,
The good old days, yes I remember.

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