Rusty gates, leading to mossy paths;
Bluebells teeming through a wood.
His weekly reading from a book,
The way an English teacher should.
–
Wearing a starched and itchy ruff,
While in a chorister’s pew.
The ice across the local pond.
An endless cinema queue.
–
After-school swimming at the local baths.
The biting cold, while waiting for a bus.
Being the West Wind in a school play.
The drama coach, who loved to cause a fuss.
–
Our garden full of autumn leaves.
The smell of bathroom soap.
An endless park with squeaky swings.
A pond with hanging rope.
–
Books from the library.
The hoot of distant owls.
Car rides to the city.
A line of drying towels.
Grinning for a photo shoot.
A hammock in the trees.
A cat upon the windowsill.
A jangling of front door keys.
–
Blank poetry notes, with lines unwritten.
A page waiting, with just a squiggle.
My mother’s food, my father’s smile,
My younger brother’s giggle.
–
A bric-a-brac of memories.
Now fading, hard to see.
But be they bright or be they dim,
They all belong to me.