Picture

I do not picture the brown-eyed sadness, Pools of hazel windblown on the heath, Any more than I picture the days of childhood, Less than idyllic pastures spread beneath. On some soft corner of a sun-bleached street, Or at some still patch of disused railway line, I feel and glimpse the vivid life before, The picture-perfect visions caught in time. The waterfall on the heads of the valley road, Black pipes upon the pinnacles of brick, Rainbows in the spray that rushed and fell, To rock-pools where the rocks lay black and slick. Or the sinkholes in the field filled up with rain, The fireworks in the bottles in the grass, The bikes with three speed gears that were rode As effortless as time in racing past. The rope tied to the bough out in the lane, Swinging, spinning, feet dragged in the dirt, Laughter at the foolish slapstick plunge When falling down seemed hardly ever hurt. I do so picture the green-eyed aching, When times of longing for those days remain, I simply love the error of my ways, And wish to do all of those things again.