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Childhood's over the moment you know you're going die 
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Post Childhood's over the moment you know you're going die

Isn't nostalgia great. You can reinvent your past and make it as idyllic as you like and if things are bad, you can always blame it on those around you, as things never use to be bad without those nasty people in your life. And if in the unlikely event that things are good, you can always make them better when you were young. There was a wood at the back of my old family house where I played endless days away with friends, or on my own in peaceful solitude, in glorious sunshine days, in a swallows and amazons council estate production where all the world was my stage and I made bows and arrows from the trees and climbed and sat in them and kicked balls about in parks at dusk with jumpers as goal posts. Days were hotter, laughter was freer and even being sad seemed to be ok with a mum and dad in the house. My room was my castle and windows open, birds would sing me awake and sing me to sleep. Bikes enabled travel far and wide to coal yards where chutes became slides, and rivers where tadpoles became whales to be caught. The fields, the parks, the apple trees, the coal yards, all was a farm about me and the apples on trees belonged to no one.

When I was young and easy under the apple boughs and the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, the night above the dingle starry, and time let me hail and climb golden in the heydays of his eyes, and honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns. And once below a time, I lordly had the trees and leaves trail with daisies and barley down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns about the happy yard, and singing as if this farm around me was home, in the sun that is young once only, time let me play and be golden in the mercy of his means. And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, and the sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air and playing, lovely and watery and fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars, as I rode to sleep, the owls were bearing the farm away, all the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars flying with the ricks, and the horses flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white with the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all shining, it was Adam and maiden. The sky gathered again and the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light in the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm out of the whinnying green stable, on to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house, under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, in the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways. My wishes raced through the house high hay and nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows in all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs before the children green and golden, follow him out of grace. Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,in the moon that is always rising, nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields and wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, time held me green and dying though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Well, that's my life story, perhaps one day someone will write a poem about it.


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Wed Jun 21, 2017 10:39 am
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