THE GARDEN OF CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

Years later, when I took a detour
Unwisely, as it turned out
I was more than shocked
To see my memory
Entirely blotted out
By a huge rectangular
Steel and concrete workshop.

And the Forge rebuilt, badly
As a rough brick disgrace
Of no obvious purpose.

The house was still there
Smaller than I’d remembered
And where by its side
Under a grand oak
I had once sucked new grass stems
Paving slabs for car parking.

After that I never returned
And bit by bit
What once had been
Fitted back together in my mind.

It was here in the Forge
Despite my blacksmith father’s warnings
That, aged six
Attracted by the bright colour
I picked up the hot iron bar
In my woollen gloved hand.

Here too, at the same age
With his kind help
I made the thick wire version
Of a wrought iron gate
Complete with real scrolls
For my school project.

And here the smell of hot iron
Plunged into a water trough
To temper it
Imprinted itself forever in my brain.