… Jack Frost`s
spirographs inside my bedroom window: beyond lay the monochrome, muffled moors.
That day a flurrying
helicopter came to take our pinch-faced neighbour to hospital; a what-a-lark
soldier delivered bread – and then was gone into the sun-leached sky.
It was 1963 and my
four-years-old self had forgotten the summer.
© Tim Scott
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