Life was simple when I was eight –
a bookworm Mum, a bossy older sister,
and a Dad still in the RAF,
the war just over, so no more fear
but still not much to eat.
Going to the pictures twice a week
for romance, adventure and laughter
with a cartoon, some ads
and the newsreel thrown in
for the one and ninepenny treat.
The Gang with a den
on a bombsite to play in,
read in and act out stories.
A noisy old pre-war bus
grinding painfully up the hill
past the rec and the shops
and the treasure house library
to the prim convent school.
When I was nine – we moved
from suburban conformity
to live in the country beside the Thames
where I ran wild for a year or five,
on the river, discovered horses,
had a ball until we moved again –
much resented – back to London.
Then I had to grow up.
The Octpowrimo prompt for today is to go back to when we were eight years old. The result for me is rambling snippets of free-form non-poetic history. I may come back to this.