Best Placeschildhood Poems
I can see it now even without looking that clear view above the steeply dropping
rooftops. That sight is peppered across my childhood memories, the open
moorland, in all weathers and in all seasons. Standing at the top of the road on the
way to where ever, always a brief moment to glance at its beauty. Be it tinged with
purple heather, or covered in snow, sometimes missing altogether in the mists of an
autumn morn, ever constant but never quite the same. Beautiful, yet intangible too
far to run, to young to drive. Even now I long to see that view again with real eyes,
so much so that I suspect, given the car and some time I'd find myself not on the
moor of my childhood desires, but instead atop the hill above the rooftops staring at
the view.