The old brick wall

What came to mind was a brick wall
In several squares of thought, a wind

Buffeting creepers flying on its holes
And moss of history faded into night.

Busy brown ants were not left behind.
It was words of bricks we might build

A visitor would come in brown stripes
A fickle screw-head against a blue sky

A creeper would strut its proud stuff
Of flowers of paper hanging in leaves.

It was not a mere brick wall but a wall
Of holes that hid my childhood years.

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