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