NOSTALGIA

in a green lane unknown to motor cars;

the long walk around fields of flower-flecked corn,

clambering stiles and creaky-hinged five bars

to reach our village school and the Three Rs:

Mother, apron-ed, smoothing the counterpane;

arranging hedgerow posies in jam jars -

nostalgia is my fix, forget cocaine.

That Sunday School treat on the Castle lawn

with Rollo home from the Hussars:

Cook telling Aunty Vi they'd have to pawn

the sapphire parure and a Meissen vase

to pay his mess and tailor's bills; the stars

of a flopped show he's backed in Drury Lane;

and for souvenirs from Far East bazaars -

nostalgia is my fix, forget cocaine.

I still treasure the Sunday hat first worn

when adding my dumb cheer to the hurrahs

at Rollo's wedding. I rose before dawn

to sweep and polish with the village chars -

he's said I looked like one of the Renoirs

and it would harm his manhood to abstain

promising Gretna Green and registrars.

Nostalgia is my fix, forget cocaine.

Time is supposed to lessen childhood scars

and create sunshine out of rain:

I've done a course on Writing your Memoirs -

Nostalgia is my fix, forget cocaine.