The attic I see him now in the old attic room
looking down over the long garden.
It is high summer and the roses are thick
on the ancient trellis;i can smell them.
i watch as he scores his initials
into the soft wood above the Belfast sink
and wonder's if he will ever return
but he never will
and i feel his fear,that little boy
with his time capsule buried
and lost in nineteen sixty two.
Now,he moves on
and i see him rooting around in the rubble
in front of the garage by the iron gates
of solid green.
I follow him as he walk's to the corner
of the Fauldshead road and Glebe street
and sit's himself down on the pavement
while the sun melt's the tar on the highway
and stick's to his shoes.
Then he start's to drift away
carrying his memory,my memory,of summer....
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