The Best Years of Our Lives

The Best Years of Our Lives

In the gutter‑washed glow of Fleet Street’s streetlamp, we found our shy first steps, unshackled and bright. A diary, a jolly motoring‑class of life, we said “cheers” to a future painted in neon light.

The days were a blur of London rain and a pint, of cricket cheers on Sunday, of rain‑candied top‑soil. We traded our first love‑laced notes, and the taste of the wind‑gusting press‑and‑pound of a wild London coil.

From terraced gardens where we’d hide behind hedges, to ringing the bells in the church on the corner, every laugh, every tear, a memory that lodges, in hearts that the own the kindness of the yester‑torm.

And now, under golden hedgehog‑crown autumns, we sip tea, wood‑cutting‑shaped and calm, recollecting all the dawn‑crush that moves us, the best years of our lives, the heirloom of our calm.