I woke at four, the house a hush,
lamplight ironing creases into dawn.
Damp earth breathed its early hush,
and excitement ran like river-song.
We stood like statues beneath the flag,
small chests puffed full of pride.
A teacher pressed 5 glossy toffees into hand
one tasted sun, the rest a secret tide.
I tucked four coins of sweetness
into the tiny pocket of half-pants,
a private treasure, warm and close,
kept for afternoon’s slow dance.
Patratu’s streets unspooled in gold—
parades, low chatter, heat that held—
those afternoons rooted quietly;
small pockets made my freedom bold.
Now memory drifts back soft and clear,
a warm, unmistakable echo—
to lamplight, to toffees, to 4 A.M.,
to childhood’s bright, small stow.
