My Spinney

In those days we were coppers and robbers,
cowboys and Indians in makeshift teepees,
feral, ferocious gangsters and mobsters,
stalking, spying, vying for victory.
Alien monsters, war-torn soldiers,
lethal enemies in every bush and tree.
Catapult braces, bicycle racing
home with hunger and dirty faces.

I often reminisce such childish bliss,
the ghosts of which I never left behind.
Sacred secrets sworn in childhood trysts,
historic bytes, like priceless jewels come to mind.
A chance to revisit was not to be missed,
so I journeyed way back to my spinney to find
in its place an estate of new houses stood.
Bricks and mortar had devoured the wood.