Sandpits and a red plastic shovel,
how deep could the little hands dig?
Southern Avenue smelt of
Eucalyptus and merry-go-rounds and
tinkling orange-ice carts. Back then
we had Saturdays in plenty. So
many suns to jump out at, so many
guineapigs to tickle through the bars. The
Mini-ponies never stopped for us, Daddy,
but I climbed up a dune and called it
a mountain. Then on the way back we chewed on popcorn
the shape of clouds and
conspired over my big little secret - I swore I'd grow up to be
a Detective. The Sun has swallowed too many
Saturdays since then, but
Daddy,
look look, I have (almost)
detected
my season of sweet
wonder - !
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