More shooting stars in the sky than there were cars passing by
and it was always dark at night,
frost clutching tight to fingers turned quite blue
and Father said, you’ll catch your death, but we never did,
you can remember these little bits when your memory allows.
sleds in the snow
the warm glow of a choir
the heat from the open fire
crumpets toasting on the spindly fork
the walk to the Co-op
the bottle of fizzy pop
Mum with the shopping bags
belting up the street.
Rita from the chippie
always had good fish,
too many boyfriends
always wore red lippie
moved to Australia
to get away.
you can remember until you can’t.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.