I can smell your Fisherman’s Friend
when I stand down wind
and in its fragrant herbal warmth
a memory I find
of hopscotch pitches chalked in white
upon the tarmac black
and scuffed up shoes and ratted ties
when the schoolbell called us back
not blue remembered hills are these
nor seperate regrets of mine
just simple senses pushing back
the velvet blinds of time.
