66 Mill Lane
At the house where I lived as a child my father comes out of the blue front door in his slippers. The bonnet of our Triumph Herald’s tilted forward – he’s letting the gargling radiator drink as much as it needs from a heavy, flowered jug: the frown on his forehead is a crease on the surface of a stream. And singing Younger than Springtime to herself my mother appears at the back just as he goes in, like Rain and Fine in a house of balanced weather. It’s another glorious day as I walk up the drive, clunk the bonnet closed on its sprung clip and latch the two chrome levers into place so it won’t come open by accident. |