Sunday Scribblings # – Phantoms and shaddows
Time for another Sunday Scribbling!
When I was a child, my father was a farm manager. We lived on the farm in Suffolk, in an old timber frame house, with the farm yard at one end and the garden going round three sides of the house.
We left that house when I was ten years old, and yet I can still walk round the garden, in my minds eye, as if it were yesterday I moved out.
There in one corner is the flint too large to be lifted and placed in the rockery by a tractor with a bucket.
In the other corner is the willow tree, its branches stretching out for the ground, a swing hidden amongst its leaves.
There are the old tea roses, the daffodil circles in the lawn, and round the back, along with the chicken run and Muscovy ducks padding round the edge of the farm pond…
our hide outs, made of branches, leaves and moss, hidden to the casual passer by and host to a thousand childhood daydreams.
The oddest thing is, I remember it as a ten year old, and so, when I went back, a couple of years ago, everything seemed so… small.
The tree had gone, the hide outs cleared away. It looks lovely, well kept, but I prefer my larger, ten year old version.