Folks in Old Coppice have been heard to say,
Sometimes a swirling evening mist comes down,
And glimpsed as in a waking dream they may
See wraith-like figures wandering on the lawn
In silent converse, they're so pale and wan,
And to a man, they've all got nothing on.
A hearty game of volleyball they'd play,
If weather wet, then maybe dominoes.
Earnest discourse on issues of the day,
Over tea and buttered crumpets, who knows,
Who can recall, such days of old, long gone?
In innocence, they all had nothing on.
Their pleasure was the sunshine on their skin.
Unfettered by the clothes of everyday,
Their harmless actions seen by some as sin,
A wicked presence on the Shropshire Way.
The trappings of the world outside forgone,
Their happiness, they all had nothing on.
These days, enlightened, we no longer judge
Their simple pastime as abomination.
Sun lovers all around the world indulge
And imitate the dawn of all creation,
Reflecting on a paradise that's gone,
One man, one woman, each with nothing on.
Copyright © Peter Rees | Year Posted 2017