Jam jars and tent pegs

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Perfectly imperfect
that’s my memory of childhood years
I know it wasn’t all sunshine
but there was that long hot summer of ’76
with the grass scorched brown and
ravenous for the slightest drop of rain
and the sugar-water filled jam jars
suspended from tree branches –
a Heath Robinson-esque tactic
designed to entice the wasps away from luscious wax-bloomed plums
dangling like piñatas, swaying in the sultry breeze.
We holidayed in Wales
our old blue canvas tent patched
and not a patch on the brown and orange and plastic windowed
modern varieties that were our field mates for a fortnight.
Our neighbours had a portable TV, car battery powered
the boys had a pogo stick and their dad a boat –
mackerel clothed in rainbows filled our bellies that night.
Then the gales hit and our tent alone stood up to the wrath of the heavens
thanks to sheer bloody-mindedness and incessant hammering-in of tent pegs in the darkling night.
Not for us a disappointing flight home to suburbia in the face of the wilds.
Perfectly imperfect –
I wouldn’t swap it for the world.


 

I’m in reminiscent mood, for no reason. Here’s a slice of my childhood for you – and I’m sort of revealing my middle-age by mentioning the British drought of 1976… 🙂

The dVerse hosts are taking a well-earned rest until 18th July, but I still feel the urge to write poetry, which is a good thing, I think. I hope you enjoy it!

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4 thoughts on “Jam jars and tent pegs

  1. I had to think what I might have done in 76… We most likely went north, my father doing research, and we followed in his trail, my mother staying behind. We had a lovely kitten we had named Moses who hiked the mountains on a leash… later when we came home he was run over by a car, one of the saddest moments in my life.

  2. not enough poetry utilizes the word “bloody” in the manner that you have used it. That made me smile! Just goes to show that the old, worn, and patched is not necessarily inferior to the brand new. And I agree with you…dVerse staff are on a well deserved break, but my mind still desires to churn out poetry!

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