I remember
a black and white photo of a boy
in bed on Christmas morning,
a model-plane kit on the blanket;
coloured in my memory.
I remember hands hurting in the snow,
throbbing pink after snowballing.
I remember no Christmas tree
but the dry weightlessness
of balsa wood and pressing pins
to secure wings to paper
plans; sharp addictive smell
of glue and drum-like tautness
of dope-stretched tissue across
wing ribs and fuselage – winding up
the elastic band powered propeller.
I remember a solid fuel pack
when lit sent another plane
out of sight with a fizz and a buzz
and a burnt chemical stink. I lost that plane
when it flew over roof tops.
I remember gazing at grey snowflakes
drifting
against a bright sky and wondering
why everyone said snow was white.
Eric Nicholson is now retired. He worked latterly as an ESOL teacher and also worked in other fields of education. Now, in his retirement he enjoys countryside conservation, writing, singing and hill walking. His long, fitful practice of Buddhism possibly influences some of his writing. Lives in the North East of England and helps run a local writers’ group. Published in http://www.neutronsprotons.com http://www.literaryorphans.org http://www.emptysinkpublishing.com http://www.heartjournalonline.com https://contrappassomag.wordpress.com/about/ [hard copy magazine]- Blogs on http://www.erikleo.wordpress.com
Abegail Morley 