The Morn's Alive With Skylarks Singing

The morn's alive with skylarks singing o'er the greening meadow and the pliant pasture, the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer. A sudden shower would see me running fancy free between the rain drops, I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive; I skittered, happy, crisp and clear, like God's first measure of a holy hymn. The air alive with songs of praise, the gentle winds a sacred message, His grand prescription like a dream that streamed out from the pillows of the heavens. I liked to wander by the sea shore skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity, as a lamb on shaky legs and tumbled freely without care, 'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath. The halcyon days of youth came true, when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun, bedaubed in Autumn's blood, the flame a blend of hues the likes of which would make a young boy doubly blind, and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields would blister scarlet, happy times that made me see my childhood clearly. The weather turned again, and shanties high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats, their nets pulled, nudging at the jetty. From the sand the village was a hazy spectre, the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair, her hair a daydream falling soft, O fanciful imagination! I thought to when my mother took my hand. We skipped the cobblestones and shopped for wishes, toys which we could ill-afford; a Batman cape, a red fire engine. The lanes were thick with merchants and the joy of life, haggling, chattering like crazy seabirds, loud, and mouthing their wants and wares, and then we wandered home exhausted. I never lost my youthfulness, my joy at seeing herons gloating, eagles floating high on zephyr'd breezes free as spring; hallowed times, in Jesus' presence. I measure now my moments as the hours shift by, thirty years and blissful, regrets are slight and few, I count my blessings, feel content that tribulation never came to bother me. A birthday cake is waiting for me, candles flicker, frosting beckons, hope eternal; my wish the same, for peace on earth to all men, greetings and goodwill! I lie down in the close and holy quiet while the village sleeps, and slips toward a new adventure, safe in His keeping, perfect day with promise of a bright tomorrow! Last Modified: October 12, 2015 at 02:58 pm © bickerstaffe - all rights reserved Author Notes ...an homage to Dylan Thomas.