My First Gift

Suddenly, I realised which woodsI was walking through – of course,The woods behind the house whereI had lived as a child - good God:Thirty years since then!I did not know then it was a council house,Or the estate a council estate –Nor had I any idea that it was consideredRough – certainly no place for the smooth:I knew the Haighs next-door-but-one were‘Scruffy’, with a tip posing as a garden,And the eldest boy was lodging in a borstal.But I did not know Mrs. Haigh was moreA ‘fancy woman’ than a wife married toA nasty piece of work posing as a man.

I had to stop and stare at the house.I could have been watching an old film –The house looked the same, the sameBrown, ugly pebbledash exteriorAdvertising its council house credentials.And the garden was pretty much the same –But there was no young womanWashing up in the kitchen,And no young man planting his spudsAnd his veg in the garden whichOverlooked the old woods thick withBluebells every vital Spring.

And here they were again, I mused –The same bluebells, just like the onesI collected once to give to mum as a gift.She would smile and find a jam jar thenPlace it on the kitchen window sill.Try as I might, I could not conjure upMy mum and dad, even in black and white.But it would help, I muse again, ifSomeone would place a jar of beautifulBluebells on that same window sill.