Where, as a little child, I held the hand
of Grandmother or Grandfather, and stepped
over the edge of brushy ditch that was
the boundary of Thorley Wood.
These memories are dim and fuzzy,
nonetheless precious as escape
when old-age life overwhelms.

My feet could wander off the path
and if it was not muddy, would not be
tussled back, but could brush through
primrose thick as curdled cream.
I stand now among the trees that rim
my yard and try to find the green,
honeyed smell, but nothing measures
the air like Thorley Wood.

As we stepped onto the wide cart-path
that ran through the middle, sparkle of
pond water floated among trees on
the other side. The candy cottage
of a bedtime story blossomed
from my imagination to the unseen distant
shore to be forever linked in memory.

Then suddenly there was no more
walking in the woods, no matter how
I begged, because “the siren might go,
and what would we do then?”
Father put on a uniform, jaunted
a cap over his smooth black hair,
and went away.  My tears were wiped
away with a rough handkerchief.
Grandad rocked me to acceptance
of life with many changes, and
before long, the siren sounding
threaded hurried days,
and sleepless nights.

December, 2019