Memory Child

I want to roll down that grassy hill,
Again in Mississippi, bare-footed
In my ‘petticoated’, polka-dotted, flouncy dress,
Sashes hanging untied down the back.
And walk through the fragrant gardens
Of brogan wearing old-maid great aunts;
Hiding half-way behind her dress,
Clinging to the wrinkly flesh of my Granny’s arm.