Heydays.
Springs ago, froth on the Hawthorn
seemed the whiter,
house-high were waving cornstalks
and every morning the sun
brought me heydays of running free
in crystal-clear air.
Whispers of green turning to gold
sang ease to my old
heedless summers when increasing
bulge of apple-tree wait
with reddening fruit tickled my taste
buds with impatience,
where tiddlers from ponds decorated
jars laid on sideboards
and tadpoles were carefully watched
as they became frogs,
when prayers were oft repeated by
rote as blessed harvest
meant working folk tended better
to farm-job demands,
where help within family members
was expected and
willingly given so that the business
of good-hearted land
filled daily living with needful tasks
as offspring well knew.
Sabbath-still-quiet reigned back then
trailing daisy-dreams
through streams of fanciful planning
as girl-hood drained
all adventure before barn-owls sang
final lullabies
and maiden moons became matured
while rounder woman
grew behind girl\'s nightgown closure.
Lamb-soft was my child-time, sadly
now ended, when farm-fed
hands were welcome and oven bread
freshness pervaded
aproned kitchens where every place
on ready-laid tables
was gained by hard labour drenched
with family values.
Grace said, any left-overs honoured
wild fur and feather
with crumbs saved to spread a-top
outlying hedgerows.
Innocence cycled then
for miles unafraid, happily solo and
resilience thrived.