to D. F. (Denny)

guinea-pig

Guinea pigs and sunshine, an old tree,
and you perched up on the swaying fence
gazing out across the gardens,
dreaming, grave as only a little girl can be.

Let’s run away!

Gently I stroke the sleek guinea-pig hair
sun-warm upon my lap; stare
back up at you, worshipping.

So long ago and far away.
The past is a foreign country – but not
so foreign to us: we used to live there.

© James Munro

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