(Written for all who shared the 1960’s dream)
Part One: The sleeping child.
The leafy path of autumn has taken us away, to a place that we can’t find,
it’s lost in yesterday.
In the Pickering house in Crickets Wood, where moons rose high and yellow,
some child still sleeps in wonders world, on a comforts deep warm pillow.
Part Two: Autumnal regrets.
I have left the rhymes of childhood far behind but I know this:
Something dreadful came that summer and when we stopped dreaming, the world stopped.
A Suffolk road that hid its mysteries behind blind corners, the pine tree blues, in the coming of the new roads, that killed our rainbows, the endless reaching out to wonderment, and legacies of grace…
A confusion of yells and moans in the tangled web of: ‘Having to be someone!’ The maypole playing fields turned to concrete, so sad now, cannot bear the weight to think of it, just the memory man here tonight, and a cursed autumn chill.
Does God exist to let us build our dreams, and then break our hearts by letting them die? I can see a wheelchair, an old lady in it, wracked with pain, can God remove the years of aging, for her to see a young beautiful girl meeting her boy for the first time in lovers lane?
Does the manic march of years have purpose?
Is time a mystery or an enemy?