26th January 2020

ragged clouds
where distant sunshine glints
wind blown rubbish

 © Rachel Green 2020

sixty-three
that's the year I was born
and the year you are now
What connects us, I wonder?
I've known you all my life
you've known me most of yours
is that love? respect?
the memories of a shared history?
No-one else remembers the lilac tree
where we buried our dead pets.
or the tin of rabbit bones you dug up
with the intent of wiring them together;
a rusty catering-sized coffee tin
forgotten among the detritus of the fowl-pen.
Remember the disco you held,
where you and your friends painted the hut
and sold orange squash a tuppence a glass?
Your collie, Teddy, riding shotgun
in your window-panelled Escort van
and how Ginny vomited onto Dad's friend Chris
from the high kitchen shelf;
Shane the terrier rounding up your flock of rabbits
and the treasured times you spent time with me
teaching me to ride at Seecham, and Sepia Stables
and cycling down Icknield Street
on a warm summer evening.

 © Rachel Green 2020