Stolen hours

If you were young again,
you would remember how
the sounds of summer evenings
drifted through an open window;
The late call of birds,
the clang of pans below
and murmurs in the living room.

The hours stolen from the day,
the twilight ventures
through the dampening grass,
drifted into dreams of everlasting days
when you were young again.

I enlisted two helpers this morning (I'll make it up to you both somehow) to frantically clean and remove all unaesthetic objects. Estate agents arrived and took photos, and then went, leaving me with an unusual sight of clear surfaces and space.

I'm enjoying it for the moment. We may or may not sell the house, who knows. We need some garden for the boys, because I long for them to have what I had, with Mrs Pepperpot and dad, AKHF and P and those long, light summer nights, when the sounds drifted in and out of my head and there was space outside to play,