Hockley

Dreams of yellow and gold fields,
the colour of summer.
A winding grass track,
a range rover stuck in the ditch.

A Jag dumped and burned
by the rickety old fence.
An old wooden gate guards the border
to our modest patch.

Vegetables and plants
an acre to the back.
A grand wooden hut
where we all used to stay.

A green caravan for nan,
a wooden shed for grandad
by an outside toilet,
happy with what we had.

Found in the grass,
an abandoned valve radio
dismantled to find its secret,
a process carried over.

The whole plot surrounded
by woods and fields.
Playing oldschool games
with my brother and my grandad.

Take a brisk walk for food
through the ancient wood,
a goat on the roof
of a pubs outside shed.

The Town sits nearby
with white concrete roads,
a scene out of the sixties
Hockley, East of London.

Beautiful simple times
our summers were occasions,
six weeks seemed like a year,
the days spent on vacation.