Childhood in Stanah


These are the lost, winding lanes around Stanah.
Where the theatre of childhood played under green banners.
Now veiled in the summer’s blue haze,
The hedgerows still turgid with long yesterdays,
With their ditches of frogs; where a stick and a poke,
Stirred the newts; where the square fields wreathed under smoke
And the round kneecap hills dreamed forever in time,
The cottage on Underbank – ancient, bent-spined –
And the field where the boggart once hung from its gibbet.
Still here. Unchanged. A museum exhibit.

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