I see my feet
brown like an egg and small
warm from the sun, in sandals
last year's Start-Rite
my short toes free, the toe-cap cut
by mother with a razor blade
was the leather red?
I see my arms
also bare beneath the sleeves, puffed
pale blue and knees
summer-coloured, with a scab
soon ready for the picking
always war-wounds then
when life was all outdoors
with dirt in finger nails
and time was not yet learned
from the checkered china clock
or the Victory jigsaw, seasons in each corner
but told instead by the cress seeds
wet on cotton wool
egg-box sprouting, ready yet for tea?
Sandwiches with crusts removed
or the bean on blotting paper
jam jar on window sill.
Long days then from dawn till dusk
when I was near the ground
so noticed worms, wasps, stones
(collected those with holes for luck)
knew the smell of pineapple on mayweed
threaded on a stalk
flicked plantain heads for catapults
joined daisies in a chain
I see my feet
on the garden gate, perhaps my brother's too
where we have climbed for lookouts
mother must have said
to watch and wait for dad's return
six day week routine
another country then unreachable
but technicolour clear
preserved like plums in a bottle
sweet in memory
25th February 2015, Hounoux, for my friend Wendy, some sunshine for your day
