Bourne Road

Pooky’s Poetry Prompt 11:

 

 

Back in the days of jeans and bandana’s
I would tip toe along the old stone brick walls
taking a swing on the old iron gate
into the old tennis-racket shaped road.
We were the children of the River Bourne
playing happily above our ancient wood
cycling in circles around our bubble
waiting to venture down the unknown path.
We created chalk worlds on the grey pavement
where our art reflected our village life
of summer carnivals and bonfire nights
bringing this circle into another vibe.
I remember standing outside my home
eighteen years of me imprinted in those bricks
echoes of laughter bound through the parish
as I waltzed into the woods, goodbye.
The 90s children have all grown and gone
new pedals and canine friends take their place
but the brown robins are still all twittering
like the old ladies down by station house.
The road I grew up on belongs elsewhere
in a time of jeans and bad bandana’s
when dancing to ‘Under the Sea’ was cool
and dinner was hot curry sauce on chips.
 
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