Five

Five.

When I was five
my friend Peter fell from the footbridge.
On to the rail track.
He died.
Peter had lots of really good toys, cars, tanks, planes, more and better than mine.
I wonder what they’ll do with them ?

Now I am fifty five
walking through Upper Cam churchyard last week,
saw the small green grave; caught myself, wondering that wonder again.
Embarrassed, turned to see who was looking; fled .
I’d like to hide.
Five again.