Back in the days when routine things happened,
three or four times a year,
the Council mower would turn up and cut
the long grass in the field next to where we lived.
Three things -
the glorious aroma of petrol fumes
coughing out of the machine's rear;
the seductive, raw scent of freshly cut grass
purifying the unfresh air;
the grass fights when we scooped
handfuls of damp cuttings
and lobbed them at each other.
The field is now a huge concrete slab
and the only nod to younger days
are weeds struggling to grow through cracks,
almost whispering, pleading, for a return
to our green playground's carefree innocence.
The way it used to be, the way it will never be again,
and our only lobbing now are the memories of way back when...........
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