Before the days of supermarkets selling everything, there used to be an independent cobbler that had a small shop in the town I grew up in. No matter what the weather, the front door was always open and whenever you walked past, you got a delicious whiff of glue and leather. What that man didn’t know about shoe repair wasn’t worth knowing and, if you did know it, he’d probably thought of it first! Sometimes, I would go and stand in the waiting area at the front of the shop, just to breathe in all the different scents and to immerse myself in the whole shoe repair vibe! Anyway, here’s a poem I wrote whilst reminiscing about those days.

I remember the smell of must and leather,

and the glue that held it all together.

The happy, “Ding” of the cobblers till,

the paper bag, hand-written bill.

It stood next door to the butcher’s shop,

where meat was cut with a resounding, “Chop!”

Then, once prepared, was laid with pride,

on wooden tables, neatly tied.

The independents, small and neat,

sat side by side on cobbled street.

And when the day had turned to night,

the shop fronts bathed in soft gaslight,

were checked by bobbies on the beat,

with wooden truncheons, weary feet.

The morning sun, a new day’s start,

We’d watch the milkman with horse and cart,

stoop at each and every door,

to leave glass bottles on the floor. 

I remember the smell of must and leather,

but, alas, I fear it’s gone forever.