I remember the country village where I grew up;
sun filled days roaming with the dog,
fishing for newts and sticklebacks in the brook,
eating fat juicy blackberries from the hedges
and sledging down the snowy hills in winter.
I remember spending hours sprawled on the grass
avidly reading all the books that I could find;
helping my Grandad with his hens,
sliding a careful hand under each bird,
the warm and downy softness there,
the gentle clucking as I removed the eggs.
I remember taking home warm, brown eggs for tea,
the golden yolk running as I dipped a bread soldier
in the freshly boiled egg; I can taste it now.
I remember the tears streaming down my face
as I chopped onions for my mother
to make sage and onion stuffing at Christmas.
The smell of pigeon roasting, my biggest treat,
comes back to me in my dreams and I am young again.
I remember being taken to see the Flying Scotsman
thundering through the nearest railway station;
I can still hear the whistle as she hurtled past
the smell of oil and smoke, the billowing clouds of steam.
I remember the village as safe and secure,
full of parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents,
all gone now or scattered to various parts of the globe.
so many memories, precious memories
carefully wrapped up
and brought back to life in my dreams.

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