I’ve been remembering the village I grew up in on the North Downs of Kent, walking up the road, re-visiting each house that I pass. I’ve used the old spelling of the village, which changed while I was in my teens to Lewson …
LUCERNE STREET NOTEBOOK
weedy triangle at the t-junction
by Baker’s washerwoman home
then the house that Jack built of
post-war red brick with apple trees
next-door post-office butter pins
seeds flour gossip candy stamps
past teacher’s semi-detached
to Reg’s Saturday well-dug potato patch
opposite my two Neaves girl friends
their dying mother nursed by Nye
roses along the fence I ran into
learning to ride Mother’s bike
driveway periwinkle green gate
hedge before turn to World’s End
and back to cherry orchard fruit
picked among wet grass and mushrooms
down past rain-shadowed sheep
to old country Plough the pub
All the names come back. Lucerne. World’s End. Antony
Sent from my iPhone
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Many thanks, Antony. I had you in mind when I posted that poem, so I’m
glad it brought memories for you.