nostalgia

I'll Cross the Stream

When did it happen? When did I get to be this grumpy old woman? It must have crept up on me slowly, surely. Or maybe it’s because I’ve had to put up with so much that all my reserves of patience have gradually been worn down.

I remember what my mother was like.

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I Was Never a Rebel . . .

I was never a rebel
Well except that time
I wore lipstick and stockings
Stayed out past my curfew well after nine
But I didn’t dare light a cigarette
Until I was at least twenty-three 

I was a rebel, there’s plenty to say
Scramming apples from trees at the big house
Catapulting stones across the wall, crack
Being sent to my room then escaping
Down scaffolding surrounding my house
And running away to play 

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Water Under The Bridge

The burn stretched out in front of him like a ribbon, both the obstacle and the goal. It ran along the edge of the playing field and separated the school grounds from the streets of the town beyond. The boy usually crossed it, twice a day, using the little wooden bridge along with the other children. Some days though, he was drawn down the muddy bank to the water’s edge. Jumping the burn, and making it, offered a thrill. It was a challenge and for his friends to see him make it, especially when they did not, was a big deal.

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