The morning arrived without a bell or an alarm,
just the sun cutting through the curtains,
and the sudden, heavy realisation
that tomorrow belonged to you, too.

Weeks stretched out like a foreign continent,
uncharted, unhurried,
with no destination greater than the end of the lane
or the cool, dark space beneath the old tree.

Time lost its sharp edges.
It became the slow melt of an ice lolly on tarmac,
the rhythm of a tennis ball kicked against a brick wall,
and the dust motes dancing in the garage
where the bikes lay tangled on their sides.

We lived by a different clock,
measured only by the length of the shadows on the grass
and the distant, familiar call from the back door
telling us it was finally time to come in.

The knees were permanently green-stained,
the pockets heavy with smooth stones and string,
and the days were so long
we thought we would never grow up.