Some Poems By Sally Flood

December 14, 2025

by the gentle author

In celebration of the 100th birthday yesterday of Sally Flood, the Whitechapel poet, here are a selection of her poems accompanied with photographs by John Claridge.

EDUCATION

Life has many doorways
To educate the poor,
The stairway hard to follow
It’s not an open door,
Contacts are important
Opportunities few,
Learning is a process
The rest is up to you.

BUYING DREAMS
The Flower Market – Columbia Road

Sunday morning down Columbia Road
Where florists and gardeners, stand with their load
Each with a patter that flows from the tongue,
Beguiling the old as well as the young.

Barrows and stalls piled high with young blooms
Some to be bought and stood in dark rooms,
Boxes or strips, whatever you may
You take your choice and take them away.

Sunday morning, the market is packed,
Crates of plants being unstacked
So many bargains, you are spoilt for a choice
Just put your money along with your voice.

Join the big spenders with stars in their eyes
Hoping to stock their own Paradise,
Young plants with promise, looking so frail
Dreams for the lonely and all there on sale.

Disappointments forgotten, another year fraught
In Columbia Market you are hooked and are caught.

CABLE STREET
75th ANNIVERSARY

Just a child, I remembered
Living in a two-up and two-down,
So many things to take on
Living in the East End of town,
I remember the talk
When we were in bed
My parents conversed
I heard what was said.

Jews were the target
The bait on the tongue
I remember it well
When I was just young.
Mosley would march
The coming weekend
Leading the fascists
They had to defend?

Just round the corner
We heard the noise
The many feet marching
The angry raised voice,
Down in the cellar
We stayed all day
My father and brother
Were out in the fray.

‘They shall not pass’
The slogan they used
To stop Mosley’s men
We were being abused,
My father came home
The tale that he told
The Dockers, the Communists
The Jews were so bold.

They faced the enemy
The police on horseback,
Barricaded the streets
They truly fought back.
My brother of twelve
Was up at Tower Hill
Watching with others
He tells it still

When out of the blue
He was struck on the head
He fell to the ground
Among others he said,
Like brothers the East End
Had triumphed that day
Stood shoulder to shoulder
And never gave way.

SEPTEMBER BLUES

My washing pile grows higher waiting for the sun
I cannot wait much longer for the washing to get done.

So today I decided, dark pile was to go
So I sorted out the colours hoping winds would blow.

I do like to see my washing blowing on the line
Seasons are uncertain, the sun can’t always shine.

So I hung them out and watched the sky
The clouds that drifted there on high.

‘Oh well’ I thought, ‘At least they’re clean’
There must be sunshine in-between.

Standing in the kitchen, a thunderous roar was heard
Rain poured down, this weather really was absurd.

Now my washing hangs and weeps and I am torn again
To put them in the dryer or leave them in the rain.

THE BAG MAN

He sits by the hospital
Surrounded by bags,
The dustbin lid shows
Where his body sags.
There is a mark on the pavement
Spreads wider each day,
This is his domain
Keeps people at bay.

A rustic grey mac
Covers paddings of clothes,
His ragged drapes fit
From his shoulders to toes.
Feet so wrapped
And hidden from view
Disguised and distorted
No sign of a shoe.

Small gifts from do-gooders
He accepts with a smile,
By the crossing at Whitechapel
He’s been there for a while,
The birds come for crumbs
The cause of the grease
From the bags that surround him
The flow never cease.

Nobody knows
And nobody cares
Where does he come from?
This man with his wares.
Replacing the woman
Who had sat there before,
There is always another

In the ranks of the poor.
Life just goes on
And passes him by
No use for compassion
He doesn’t cry,
Questions are endless
They twirl in my mind
Treading the pathway
That leaves him behind.

MY TIME

Thinking back to childhood
How fast the years have gone,
So many changes to my life
For thoughts to dwell upon.

I remember days of yore
Before the radio would blare,
Before the roar of engines on the road
That made us children stare.

The coalman with his sacks of black
That stained the ceiling and the walls,
The flames that lit the twilight,
My memory now recalls.

So many magic moments
Mark the footsteps of today,
This was my time and season
I can’t wish this away.

These poems are selected from TALES BY EASTENDERS published by Liminal Books in 2014, containing writing by Sally Flood, Barry Gendler, Ann Hamblin & Dorothy Lloyd. A few copies are available at £10 from sarah.ainslie@btinternet.com