Text Box: Myra Litton

The Past is a Foreign Country, A Boy’s Childhood



The secrets of our family tree

Were found with the skeleton key

We entered the court maze

Like Hampton Court in olden days

We navigated the family pile

Adding data to our cuttings file

I remember pitchers of ice cold lemonade in the cricket pavilion

Where Uncle Cyril held dominion

I remember the ghosts of tennis courts in their decay and neglect

The feeling of belonging to a secret sect

We played games to test out our mettle

While charging boisterously through stinging nettles

We would leave messages for each other in the gazebo

Pretending to be the Count of Montecristo or Montenegro

We would race our bicycles till we had a flat tyre

Construct crystal sets to our heart’s desire

Elated when the crackles fuse as proud as Edison

Playing matchbox cars on Sunday, eating venison

We cultivated friends of a similar class

Kindred spirits in the long grass

Collected albums of rare stamps

Read under bedsheets minus lamp

Read those tales of HG Wells, CS Lewis and adventure writers

Of explorers, time travelers and fighters














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