Four years old;

I stepped into my place

of mystery; of escape and

refuge from an angry

mother, and passed from

a world of concrete and

buildings to walk on

earthy, soft, wild walkways

between bushes and trees.

There were nettles

that stung you and dock leaves

to wind round your

wound to soothe it.

There were blackberries to pick

and eat at leisure and thorns on

the branches to prick you.

There were bushes to hide in

and beautiful apple, plum and

pear trees stretching up

into the sky for me to climb

onto; branches swaying

in the wind, that were

welcoming arms to cradle me.

The fruit was mine that

Autumn; to reach out and

pick and bite into;

sour or sweet with

or without maggots.

In the outside world

there was my mother, spiky,

loud, harsh; full of

pent up hurt and anger.

There was daddy smooth,

patient, quiet and easy going.

planning to send me away.

Malcolm, Barry and me

huddled together.

“It bit sky blue,” I chanted

with each word pointing my

finger at Malcolm, Barry and

then myself.

“It bit sky blue who’s it,

not you.”

Barry’s was it.

So I ran down the track

to the narrow stream

that I jumped into

a densely packed group of

mulberry bushes to hide

under and crouched down.

“I’m coming ready

or not,” Barry shouted.

My legs ached, so

I cleared a patch of ground,

of leaves stones and dead

thorny twigs, and sat down.

A spider swung down

on a silky thread from a

branch over my head,

landed on my neck and

creeped into my ear.

My tummy rumbled,

I had been waiting for

so long and Barry had

not found me.

Watching a caterpillar

climb up a daffodil I sang

“inch worm,

inch worm, measuring the daffodils”.

Diane, Mummy yelled,

It's time for you to go away.