running dog
he's not supposed to
you can't catch me!
© Rachel Green September 2024
Aunt May was in her eighties
and Dad and I would visit her house
once a month in Bromsgrove.
He had a long belt to tie around us both
to keep me pillion on his BSA motorbike,
roaring through the lanes
half-deafened by the noise
in the orange sandbank cuttings.
She gave me a crocheted blanket
(lost long ago in a house repo)
and the memory of a paved garden
rose bushes and forget-me-nots
and I never have.
© Rachel Green September 2024
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