Poem: In A House On Windmill Hills.
In A House On Windmill Hills.
.
.
Only the fragment of a tune
Can open up the doors
Of buried memories
And take you back to times
You thought were long forgotten
In the noisiness of years.
But still we sit, drinking pop
In a messy living room
Where we first became aware
That boys were only boys,
And Cliff Richard sang
That he had got himself
A real life living doll.
.
.
