I can still see that time.
Growing up in a suburb of tidy houses,
Tidy lawns mowed on a Sunday by respectable Dads.
It was a time of flared trousers and too much hair,
Of corduroy and slip-on shoes,
A time of innocence when neighbours
Were called Auntie or Uncle.
We brothers were different to the other kids.
Trooping single file down the street
In ghastly fashioned suits
On our way to Sunday school.
I can still hear the jeers and shouts from the local boys
Who would line the route,swinging on front gates.
I still picture my brothers scuffling with them
On those immaculately trimmed lawns.
We looked out for each other back then
And were stronger for it.
And although the years have brought cynicism and indifference,
The decaying disease of adulthood hasn't dulled my memories.
The irony is, having run the gauntlet of ridicule each Sunday
We never learnt anything at the church hall
Save turn the other cheek.
Advice we never heeded.
Instead we learned a valuable lesson,
One of brotherhood.
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