I hear the unfiltered tune of birds from somewhere among the trees.
Unaware that I watch them with my pen
they keep singing.

The lone generator,
where the towering evergreens used to be,
emits a soft baritone hum.
It's loudest on the days when the sun is brightest
as if mourning the loss of that reposeful shade.

So I try to write some shade...

and the tip of my ball point rolls me back in memory
to that stubborn 'NO BALL GAMES' sign
that would try persistently to deter our playfulness
but instead
made childish rebellion so much sweeter.

The low gravelly glide of pen to paper stops
as if the words have been delivered to their destination.
And my senses come to a standstill
to check which memory they may have accidentally dropped
along the way.

...then they remember

and my nostrils welcome the scent of Mum's cooking,
which flows inwards and floats downwards
where it branches out in my chest
and gently pulls my heart into an innocent grin,
that sometimes I forget,
but Mum and Dad never will.