The vast open farms of youth,
where horizons were clear
and bush trails led to secret hideouts.
We lived in tree houses or
spent weekends on the riverbank;
sometimes we slept in caves.
In the city’s concrete jungle,
you effectively lose your habitat.
Your apartment is a shelter of solitude
to remember the widenesses of yesteryear.
The lingering fantasies of childhood –
illusions that fade away with time.
The happy playgrounds of my boyhood
are parks where old people wait to die.
I don’t return to the places of my youth;
the scars of memories are too deep.
I only remember Dad’s cancer coughs
and Mum’s final hallucinating calls.