honey and brown toast
my sweetest childhood echo
when my tongue was young
i yearn to return to herne
to be carried by stork
in a swaddle of flannel
across the english channel
over dover’s hills of chalk
to the small village in kent
where i was sent
to spend/misspend
the beginning and end
of my schooldays and fend
for myself all summer
against my brothers
and others
who may or may not now be dead
but who cares?
i can smell the smoky fields of stubble
still feel the pulse of the fence
and the depth of the puddles
and the knowing glare of the farmers concern
as i uproot his beetroot
and leave his best bull upturned
and zig zag run from his gun
into the arms of the sun
and get back home just in time
for schweppes and lime and to
watch nasties of a video kind
that may or may not have damaged
my prepubescent mind
because there’s nothing like a little “elm street”
when you’re two weeks from thirteen
but, first things first, i need
a stork of some worth
that can handle my girth
and won’t ditch me in the brine
the moment it sees that i’m thirty nine
and seventeen stone
and bereft of a diaper (sometimes)
no longer a toddler
in fact, i’m a writer (sometimes)
for tatler and country life
and that other one
with a goose on the cover
you know, “goose weekly” or some other
yet i digress
my concerns with the reliability of birds
are dwarfed when compared
to the fact i’ve just heard
that herne is no more
the village, it seems was
razed to the land
when a terrorist attack on the WI
knocked over
a victoria sponge
and four jars of jam
it’s so sad, so needless
to think that all of
my memories of those long summer evenings
and the ducks on the lake
have been replaced
with boiled raspberry seedless and
a charred slice of cake