Three decades it has been.

Has it really?

How time flies.

 

Long walks on mossy ground.

Short breaths in the crisp air.

Careful treks down the hill on moonless nights.

 

Fitfully warming hands by dying embers.

Shivering under musky covers,

And scant heat from steel cold heaters.

 

The wonders of living in an old house,

With haphazard corridors, tiny attics, dank cellars,

But disappointingly, no ghosts.

 

The joys of drinking hot weak tea,

Gobbling up fries drowned in vinegar, guffawing at spotted dicks,

And going on pub crawls with mates.

 

These memories will have to sustain me,

Until I return someday,

To this land of a misspent youth.

 

© 2017 S Phua