The Tuesday Poem: Replay

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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