by Rosie Hughes
Spot the Dog, petit filous, Wendy house, play-doh, marrows,
music box, honeysuckle, chicken pox, crayons, mallow bush.
I don’t remember my squashy pink elephant, snuggling deep in its trunk.

Mum’s engagement ring, greenhouse, television, paint pots, rainbows,
nursery rhymes, toffee crisp, skipping rope, laburnum tree, snowmen.
I don’t remember the pungent sugar beet smell coursing through my street.

Abacus, crumpets, golden retriever, steep stairs, Buckden, Calpol,
jigsaw, chicken legs, Mouse Trap, netball, seesaw, nightmares.
I don’t remember my dad reading, re-reading, ‘The Cops and the Robbers’.

Coat pegs, satchel, Pink Panther, playground, climbing frame,
stabilisers, nap time, hop-scotch, packed lunch, white board.
I don’t remember hating the Sugar Puff Monster, hiding behind the sofa.

Poplar trees, bluebell woods, apple pips, cartwheels, playing field,
spaghetti hoops, sand pit, computer games, dictionary, name tags.
I don’t remember bloody knees, not telling my mum where I’d been.

Ballet shoes, Diwali, times tables, Cluedo, tractor tyres, hymns,
pony tail, stage, frilly white socks, black patent shoes, violin.
I don’t remember the horse biting my rounded fingers as I fed him a carrot.

Dungarees, Grandpa, Etch-a-Sketch, Jenga, swimming pool,
summer house, telephone, uniform, felt-tip pens, sack race.
I don’t remember my mum brushing and plaiting my hair every morning.

Homework, roller skates, chess, fish pond, church bells,
rounders, pinafore, library, fountain pen, wildlife corner.
I don’t remember that photo where I’m grinning in Grandma’s armchair.

Velcro, zebra crossing, ice-cream van, Appletiser, monkey bars,
prit stick, exercise book, measuring wheel, calculator, gold stars.
I don’t remember that quiet afternoon, uncles and cousins dressed in black.

Xylophone, exams, school trips, assemblies, choir,
fireworks, bonfire, candy floss, ice skates, end-of-school bell.

Rosie Hughes | @RosebudHughes

Rosie is part of a creative writing group with multi-award winning poet Pat Borthwick in York. Rosie has recently come back from teaching English in Italy and is finding her way now she’s back home. She’s finally starting to take her writing more seriously but is still afraid of the Blank Page.


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