Underneath the silver birch
They'd hang pink with pleasure,
Full and frothing.
Beneath the birch's lolling leaves
I'd read, or sing or dream,
And look through dappled light
To pale bare skies
Where contrails paint across the blue.
Small fingers fashioning necklaces
From a constellation
Of crimson-tinged daisies
Dotted on the lawn.
The smell of earth, damp and raw,
Grass-stained knees and the tantalising
Whispers of summer on the breeze.
I'd lie beneath those verdant boughs
Embraced in their beauty.
And even today,
When years have passed,
I'll smell the flowering redcurrant
A childhood memory, by Angela Barton