Sometimes I see a colour
and it instantly reminds me of a familiar memory.
Like the purple-red that my knees turned
as I stood in the cold waiting for the bus to school,
or the bottle green of my school skirt,
which always felt ugly.
Soft orange-brown was the tree-trunk-fence beside the bus
stop
which held a nervous stance between the pavement and the large
ditch.
Everyday the fence leaned further and further backwards
as the black-brown soil beneath it slipped away.
My mother said we shouldn’t sit on the fence,
in case we got splinters.
