Away at the far end of my parents garden
There's a leafy bower
where garden waste is recycled
into fine compost
With a barrow full of clippings
I made my way
by the humming bees
through the tall grass and nettles
In that bower I stood
while the breeze caressed the leaves
The scent of new mown grass
evoking memories from my past
I was 10 again
running through the tall grass
chasing frogs in the meadow
making a hay rope with Francie
drinking milky tea out of glass bottles
eating chunks of sweet bread
I was 10 again
Up with the dawn
scouring the nearby fields for wild mushrooms
threading them through a knotted grass stalk
Carrying them carefully home
to cook on the range
I was 10 again
and dad was in the garden
leaning on the shovel
up to his chest in potato stalks
earthing the spuds
And
Mum was in the kitchen
humming the Little Beggerman
up to her elbows in flour
baking two cakes of brown bread
for the day
But now I am not 10
Francie is gone and the hay is no longer saved
and I don't know if mushrooms still grow wild
Dad, now a frail old man, is up to his chest in nurses and nuns
and mum is up to her elbows in phones eye drops and prayers
God bless them all the dead and the living
and God bless the ten year old girl
