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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