...
My mind often wanders to the days of my childhood,
To the hours I spent rambling with friends and alone.
Through the creeks and the gullies, up hills and in bushes,
Across every inch of the acres at home.
There were cubbies made roughly with doorways and walls,
Made with sticks and with branches and circles of stone.
With numerous boxes and nick-nacks and brooms,
All brought from the house, all carted from home.
There were swings in the branches outside the house,
And names carved in trees on the tracks that we roamed.
Slides down the creek banks in steep little gullies,
Pants that were torn when at last we got home.
There were games that I thought out, I talked to myself,
When no one was there I played them alone.
And dress up clothes splendid for every occasion,
All found like small treasures in the black box at home.
I cooked in the kitchen, biccies, cakes and fudge pudding,
Like the housewife I'd be when at last I was grown,
Seems funny now when I see how things are,
But dreaming was fun by the wood stove at home.
I held pegs for mum as she hung out the washing,
And washed up the dishes though I whinged and I moaned.
Went fencing with Dad or helped in the yards,
Work shared together with loved ones at home.
My mind often wanders to the days of my childhood,
Whatever I'm doing or how far I roam.
For youth is so precious and memories linger,
How often my thoughts fly to childhood at home...
My mind often wanders to the days of my childhood,
To the hours I spent rambling with friends and alone.
Through the creeks and the gullies, up hills and in bushes,
Across every inch of the acres at home.
There were cubbies made roughly with doorways and walls,
Made with sticks and with branches and circles of stone.
With numerous boxes and nick-nacks and brooms,
All brought from the house, all carted from home.
There were swings in the branches outside the house,
And names carved in trees on the tracks that we roamed.
Slides down the creek banks in steep little gullies,
Pants that were torn when at last we got home.
There were games that I thought out, I talked to myself,
When no one was there I played them alone.
And dress up clothes splendid for every occasion,
All found like small treasures in the black box at home.
I cooked in the kitchen, biccies, cakes and fudge pudding,
Like the housewife I'd be when at last I was grown,
Seems funny now when I see how things are,
But dreaming was fun by the wood stove at home.
I held pegs for mum as she hung out the washing,
And washed up the dishes though I whinged and I moaned.
Went fencing with Dad or helped in the yards,
Work shared together with loved ones at home.
My mind often wanders to the days of my childhood,
Whatever I'm doing or how far I roam.
For youth is so precious and memories linger,
How often my thoughts fly to childhood at home...
Written April 1983
1 comment:
This made me reflect, reading it before and again after your posts about your struggles in childbearing and health, on how much of God's sweetness and goodness we experience in all the shining normalcies of childhood, that stabilise us against the terrible joys and griefs of growing up. Perhaps when Christ speaks us of becoming 'like little children' He means for us to regain something of the simplicity that enabled this enjoyment of life.
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