With my sister I revisited
That place where we all used to live.
I felt nervous.
We were parked and loitering;
We could be casing joints or worse
With our studied photographs.
I noted that the bus-stop tree had gone
As had our old garage
And strips of woods
Where we had run and hid
Constructing many a tunnel,
Now were clogged by thickets
Which had flourished, I presume, by neglect
From the new, odd, indoor type of electric children.
Feeling twitchy and a bit subversive,
We took pictures of the present
And high-tailed it out of there.
But now those prints look fake, unreal;
They lack lustre in their power.
In my mind our favourite tree,
On which we hung like monkeys
Telling stories upside down,
Is recreated, sprouting, from the ground
And dens beneath the rhododendrons welcome us
And we, the watchers of the neighbourhood,
With marbles, chalk and hula-hoops,
Command the very centre of the road
Whistling shrill, glad alarms whenever cars,
So rare as they used to be,
Come cruising in,
Bringing all the daddies home.
Copyright © Clive Donovan 2017
CLIVE DONOVAN Clive used to live in Scotland. But finds the weather is better in Devon. He devotes himself to poetry full-time, more or less, and craves the attention of magazine editors.