Soundtrack for this post
If I could return to my childhood past.
This is where I’d go.
To the soft cool grass under foot.
To sand between little pallid toes.
To grotty snail shells rattling in my pockets.
Or sledging through winter snows.
To trudging through the heathered moors,
Seeking mother’s hand.
Sunlight pinking younger skin.
Mouth purpley blue from foraged berries.
Dad’s strong hands lifting me.
To ride his shoulders or to see a nest.
The one he destroyed most especially.
To see his face so dear, so upset.
Trying to fix that which he’d torn loose,
Through leaning on the tree.
‘It’s alright Dad, we will put them back.’
‘We can fix it.’
He tried in vain to put it right.
To save the chirping naked babies.
But I saw he did not believe.
‘The mother bird won’t come back,’ he said.
‘We damaged her nest,’ he frowned.
His sensitivity marked my heart for good.
His sorrow for the accident.
Maybe the mother bird did come back.
Maybe she did not.
Childhood echoes are likewise tenuous.
But the pages are always there.
I turn them over on occasion.
And regress…to simpler times.