Oh for the days of childhood, when the sun was always in the sky, ice-creams came in wafers, we skated on the pond all winter long, men whistled on the way to work, Christmases were knee-deep in snow and the neighbours invited you in for orange squash and bikkies. Nightime was curl up cosy in front of the blazing turf fire. Oh dear, if only!
I am eleven;
my eyes are overflowing with light
from the spangling stream,
ears brimming with its chattering
sprays and runs,
my back lush with the magnificence
of Summer sun.
I am in a field of cowslips,
the colour butter ought to be;
in the distance a bell is chiming
but I have no duties.
I’m lying on my stomach on a wooden bridge,
my eyelids shut, my fingers fishing for splinters.