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Two kinds of heaven

when I was a kid
November was cold
and sometimes, on a Sunday morning,
dad would wake us early
and we’d leave my mum asleep in bed
and tiptoe excitedly out the house
pulling on gloves & scarves
in those empty quiet hours
& foggy-breathed
tramp up the frosty mud-hard trails
for a couple of hours
between the hedgerows
& see who could jump
on the frozen crackling puddles first;
 - up to the duckpond,
to feed the ducks
then wend our way back home
before eight or eight thirty
to eggs & bacon sizzling in the pan
& bread & butter on the table
and mum in her slippers
ready for us.