In a somewhat pensive mood, today.
We all try to do it in our own way.
Me, I walk the woods and hills, trying to recapture
That half-remembered birdsong from my childhood.
Looking for the clear nascent sunlight,
And the cool morning breath of a magical wild rose.
Others revisit old haunts,
Tread half-forgotten streets and peer in shop windows,
Leaf through foxed and fragile pages
Of Peter and Jane, hold china dolls,
And gaze wistfully at black and white seasides.
It’s more than elusive,
But what they have in common,
Is leaving today behind.
Maybe, what I’m really searching for,
Is a different me,
Although I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again.
And if you haven’t tried it,
If you haven’t caught the sound of yesterday,
Or smelt the stale cooking and damp mothballs
Of a long-dead indulgent aunt,
Then perhaps you’re still too young.