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.