Children’s voices skip through open doors
As we sink into sofas and exhale
Friday evening’s five-day drudgery stores,
And hug the shadows as the sun grows pale.
They run, we read, we run from effort’s chores
And smile, to hear their joyous holy grail
Is not to pay for mortgages and wars,
But simply to spot squirrel, slug and snail.
We blazed that same old trail before, so why
Should envy slime its way along our thought?
The past is ours and stays there till we die,
While future guarantees amount to nought.
All time is motion: theirs goes twice as fast
In climb; let their descent, more gentle, last.
Fri 8 Sep 2006
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