A few clouds drift lazily across a pure blue sky
and a scorching sun sends sleeping dogs in search
of shaded bed-spaces somewhere under the trees.

Washing long dried hangs limp on the garden lines
waiting to be taken in by mothers who are sitting in
the cool indoors shucking peas into a bowl.

The local tradesmen have been and gone, having
delivered their orders of milk bread and groceries all
is now quiet in our sleepy midday Hampshire home.

The dusty lane that goes through the village is only
a bike ride down to the creek, saddle bags crammed
with sandwiches towels and swimming trunks.

The afternoon´s are spent swinging from a rope which
had been tied high in a tree over hanging the creek
letting go and splashing into the cool clear water below.

The excited screams and laughter ring out loudly across
golden fields of corn throughout the long hot summer,
a million miles and fifty-five years from where I am now*.