Cleaning memories on old windows

The aluminium ladder scrapes
against the wall
and feeling small
I climb to my window.
The face of a young boy
greets me, staring through me,
watching with me.

It’s been too hot for clothes,
the multi-coloured strips of PVC
stick to my back
keeping out the flies 
as I run through them 
into the garden.

The deckchairs are empty
remnants of a hot lost day,
wine glasses and a transistor radio 
mark their sun trap.
The strip of lawn has been cut and edged,
border soil turned from 
dry-grey to damp-black.

The cool of the shade
means the dog wants to play
as dad fills a bucket
for the car.
Mums in the kitchen
cold ham and thick butter on baguettes
asking who wants piccalilli?
I watch, as the small boy
shouts “me”