Backstreets
BACKSTREETS
In the back streets of my mind,
I play again the games of my childhood.
Vehicles few and far between, to interrupt our play;
Our soccer ball, leather scuffed by tarmac,
Thuds against the goal, chalked on the wall
Of Mr. Thompson’s house.
Until, his patience at an end,
He comes out, roaring, red-faced,
To chase us away, fist shaking.
“I know who you are, I’ll tell your parents”.
Further down the street, we start again;
Our goal two dustbins in the middle of the road,
Moved only when the milkman,
In his horse-drawn cart, approaches
When he has passed, before the game resumes,
I race home to collect a shovel and a pail,
To scoop up the horse’s parting gift
For Dad’s prize roses.
Then, all too soon, it’s time for tea
Of bread and jam and lemonade.
So long ago, the world so simple then.
But still those backstreets linger in my mind
25th September 2019
In the Backstreets of My Mind contest
Sponsor - Silent One
Copyright © Bryn Strudwick | Year Posted 2019
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