džulory ladžala

I want it back.

I want the wagon and the horses; the wood smoke and the stories;

I want chapped hands stained blue from picking berries; torn woolen stockings and rat-a-tat hair.

I want the sun on my face; wind at my back; hot tea and dry bread.

I want curled toes against the cold; crackling flames and Papo’s pipe.

I want the corner of a field; the quiet country lane; the New Forest and Tin Tin Bottom.

I want our bender huddled in a crisp and quiet clearing.

I want to hear raucous singing; Mami’s husky voice rasping out old songs;  the clanking of pots as we tumble our way through the world.

I want it back.