we rest on the hill

to give our memories

a chance to catch up,

opposite the old school

we lean on the cemetery

wall where the obvious

jokes are made, each

tinged with a knowing

but ironic speck of truth,

recollections are strewn

around out feet like spilt

halfpennies and coppers,

for those few seconds

we are village boys again

bound by the primal

elasticity of our past

young players rambling

around our very own

field of dreams,

at each visit this place

gladly takes us back,

lost boys who somehow

found our way home

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25