Oh for those evenings of summer time days, when
mama called across fields as the sun wended its way, towards far horizons, all rosy
& pink, where into its distant bed it would slide gently, dip & sink. When papa
would run to meet me & lifted me high into his arms, so close to the sky where
I would nestle my cheek into his beard like a soft birdie’s nest & he´d walk
me home holding me close & tight to his chest & I´d smell his vest of herbs.
Those warm sudsy baths blowing bubbles of spume,
talcy soft toes smelling of old faded rose & pyjamas with stars & fat smiling
moons. Supper of gold dippy eggs laid in the yard by brown fat hens; home baked
crusty soldiers dunked in yolks & cold frothy milk, gulped, slurped & drunk.
Then, leaden-lidded & being tucked up tight
in my small feather bed, with mama holding my hand & soft-stroking my head,
while papa told me stories of goblins & gnomes & I was so glad I was safe,
loved & tucked up at home where I belonged.
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