nine garages locked to keep
hands out. eighteen doors to shy
away the four wheels of work.
twenty-plus gardens with washing
lines holding last night’s raindrops.
some lawns mowed, others left to.
our tongues drinking the light with
dreams sewn into our clothes.
whacking a ball against wood
and brick. catching summer on
our skin then taking it places
we never knew. riding away
time with our fifteen-gear bikes.
seeing trees grow, that cast shadows
onto our childhood until one day
we looked back and it was gone.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.