The Tag

Those damned starlings have left their 'tags' on my veranda.
Autographs in piles of black and white,
Underline the washing line,
And emblazon the kids toy box, the chairs and the little fibreglass coffee table.
The rocking horse has 'got one in the eye.'
I am incensed.
I spend more time cleaning this space than sitting relaxing in it.
Out comes the broom, buckets of bleached water and high pressure hose.
It is not the most clement of weather.
It is going to take a long time to dry.
I am saturated and cold.
Almost done and I'm cleaning the bottom of the table.
It would have been pretty 'groovy' in the sixties.
Would not look out of place in 'A Clockwork Orange.'
It has been passed on to me by my father, who made it.
Then I spot it,
My 'tag'.
In pencil,
My name and address from 1977.   

Revisiting memories

It was just an underpass,
Rusted,
From a long defunct railway line,
On an obscure dirt track,
Which had at one time,
Been the main road,
To Nimmitabel.

But many winters ago,
Almost fifteen,
This was where we had held each other,
For the first time,
After a long time parted,
At a particularly crucial stage in our,
Relatively young relationship.

Here under this bridge,
On that cold, dark, drizzly night,
When I was shivering,
With stress and trepidation,
At the consequences,
I knew would inevitably follow,
You held onto me.

Just as you did today.