Remember those late summer days, with the hum
Of insects and shimmering heat and that sun
That low golden, ‘I’m in love’ sun?
Remember the songs we could hear in the trees,
The scent of hot grass and the warm salted breeze,
That thistledown-wish laden breeze?
Remember the lemonade smile on your face,
The knowing that we all belong in this place,
This dearly-held, storybook place?
Remember the stepping of cattle grids and
The stick of warm mulberry juice on our hands,
Our high swinging, finger-linked hands?
Remember the swings made for you – and the slide?
With love and the hope you might linger outside
Until housework is done stay outside.
I know that I shouted and wished you would grow
So I could stop work and just breathe and be slow,
Lie low, plateau and go slow.
But now I will sit on the old rusted swing,
And wonder how I can turn back everything,
Every precious and slippery-gone thing.
I don’t want the slow, I’d like some more fast
Some more of the hurry in our busy past,
That precious, that happy-skip past.
The insects still hum and the late light is gold,
But the breeze is now heavy with wishes grown cold,
A wistful and childgone-sad cold.