I remember wild mushrooms,
how green it all was,
the roughness of stone
against the smoothness of child palms,
soil trickling through inquisitive fingers.
The dog would pant in happiness,
run with the wind in a small eternity
as we sought sticks to fight and win
our imaginary battles.
When it rained we took shelter
beneath ancient trees,
whistled bars of music
as the silver spray sheeted down
and the horns of cars sounded in the distance.
Then, as the day made a last valiant stand
against night and hunger strained our bellies,
we drew sustenance from worn school satchels;
fish paste or strawberry jam our ever preference,
occasionally a slice of home made cake
stolen from larders never quite fulfilled.
And afterwards, there were just as rich fruits
to be culled as we made our carefree way home
beneath a watchful, smiling moon;
the haze of evening bringing an understanding
that another perfect day was ending.
Still though, our wings were not clipped,
nor would they ever be in a time
where naught counted save the call to arms;
and where the friendship of the day lasted
longer than the travelling of the sun.