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!