My father strides across the yard
slim, thirty, shirt-sleeves rolled purposefully up.
A milk pail clanks in his hand.
My mother stands at the door
bare-foot. Last summer's Sunday dress swings
as she turns - dark hair, long to her shoulder.
I am nine. The sunlight on the river
crackles like broken glass.
If I want to, I can sit on this bank forever.
Just a little nostalgia here. I was recently going through a box of old photographs and found many that related to my childhood on a farm in the lake district. I love the way you can re-run memory sequences like videos at the back of your head. It all exists there - nothing is lost.
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