I remember
Running through streams and stepping over twisty ripples
One mossy rock at a time,
The thin hands on the grandfather clock
Ticked and tocked and stopped momentarily
Allowing our laughs and screams of joy
Time to spread through the trees and bramble,
And the sunlight to dance on our dreams.
I’m older now and recall,
Such happy moments, golden times.
They pierce the hard days and drudgery
Of this horrid world
When the same thin hands on the grandfather clock
Never seems to stop,
To let the same old sun come into my dreams.
‹ Patience
Categories: Blog, Poetry, Uncategorized
A Different Country 
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