Extract from
IMAGES OF CHILDHOOD
Part I

Strolling past a local landmark I have met countless times before,
Clouds scattered above like spies from the east they seem to be following,
Old trees with their steadfast trunks and wavering arms almost appear
to recognise me,
Perhaps only because I am conscious today
— I have come here specifically and I have come here to see.

To admit myself into an otherwise lost world,
So I sit myself down and try intently to blend in and cautiously wait,
For a flash of my history to revisit, to come streaming back,
Like the slithery streaks of a school of skipjack,
Through the murky backwash of the shorewaters of time,
At first hesitant and flickering they play on my mind
— It’s these images of childhood I have come here to find.

Difficult to catch and even harder to hold,
But dazzling in intensity when they show themselves to me,
They surge up like torpedoes then leave a flat sea,
Disappear in the distance at a depth out of reach,
But they are still there, I feel and I see;
They are set in my mind like the concrete of sprawl
That has shaped our poor cities and personal growth,
So I focus my sights on a range deeper still
— There are gaps in my life I have come here to fill.

And although it looks roughly the same, the place and the scene,
The people have changed, the world has changed, and what’s more,
I have changed,
So I have come here to search — for reflections of the past,
Warbled and blurred on the waves of the now,
To remember a life I have not found since,
— I have come to go back, to catch just a glimpse...

This is the park where we used to play,
An open grandstand that looks the same today,
With its concrete wicket that gave little bounce,
A challenge for batsmen and bowlers at once.
At the back of the stairs there's a plaque no-one sees,
Donated to the youth of the area it reads.

It’s forgotten now but I guess they meant us,
While nearby the date palms stand sentinel to the passing of trucks.
The caravans of the carnival used to pass through like storms,
One summer they arrived simultaneously and a disaster was born.
There were rogues running round dropping coins in the mud,
Lights cutting out, tents falling down and the main ring was a flood.
There were toffee apples and dagwood dogs and that elusive fluffy prize,
But the melody and coloured lights would attract us each year like flies.

This is the field where we kicked around,
On a warm afternoon this is where we’d be found,
With gumtrees as goalposts and a rosebed as lines,
My mate and his brother versus myself and mine.
They were three years older and it seems three feet as tall,
There was one match that ended quite ugly I recall.
They didn’t like being beaten, so they thought they’d teach us right,
And what started as a friendly game soon erupted into a fight.
They picked me up and drove me back and threw me to the ground,
And when I managed to get onto my feet they supposed I could go another round.
Flowing tears and siren whine signalled the end of the game,
By which time I had a broken arm which has never quite healed the same...