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She’s worn down,  I always remember fresh paint in the summer but nowadays rarely does the step ladder leave the shed. Brushes got soaked again, he would smile that I hated these summer jobs, walls needed a new coat. ‘Get the silver paint out for the gate, and sand paper’ I had despise for glass paper, I’d rather stare at the rose bushes, the local team in a final up at St Pauls and any kind of sunshine would glint and pass the minutes away closer to bed time.
What would I give for one more day cleaning those steps on the ladder.
The sound of the man’s bark to hold on, not let go, the fear of heights.
The old hardshaws are long gone, like the emulsion broken like Porter pint glasses and horses buried with their gold cups.
Gone are the cute girls at mass on Sunday and school ceili on Fridays. I wish for youth but the rain and the bus come instead. Go home son sleep it off.

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