white posts with red eyes
flash by with driven monotony
the trees a green-grey blur
in the early morning mist.
the beat of the wipers
poens the door to
memories...
as we climb into the moutains....
spiralling sprinklers,
and hiding before tea....
a bedroom of purple,
bbqs for dinner....
lavender patches,
the home of master jack,
the old black cat....
silver hair like a curtain
to her waist...
a silver brush, always,
one hundred strokes.
the smell of tonic and gin,
russian toffees melting
on my tongue...
jam jars awaiting filling...
and
a caress,
with bony fingers,
on a young girls cheek.
a smile gentle and knowing.
a wave by the honeysuckle
gate...
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
white posts with red eyes
flash by with driven monotony
the trees a green-grey blur
in the early morning mist.
the beat of the wipers
poens the door to
memories...
as we climb into the moutains....
spiralling sprinklers,
and hiding before tea....
a bedroom of purple,
bbqs for dinner....
lavender patches,
the home of master jack,
the old black cat....
silver hair like a curtain
to her waist...
a silver brush, always,
one hundred strokes.
the smell of tonic and gin,
russian toffees melting
on my tongue...
jam jars awaiting filling...
and
a caress,
with bony fingers,
on a young girls cheek.
a smile gentle and knowing.
a wave by the honeysuckle
gate...
god bless aunty tilly...she made it to ninety three...
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