Calendar Memoir
by R L Tilley
Something you
don’t see anymore: the shoots of wild barley
growing through the cracked pavements of the
bombed city.
That first day
at school Deanna Sneddon threw a dart of barley
at me.
‘There’s
fleas in that,’ she cried. ‘Now
you’ve got the fleas.’
I didn’t
want to go back. I still don’t.
1946.
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