In the cool of early morning, in the quiet of my room,
With the children all still sleeping in their beds,
I’m reflecting on the years gone by and those still yet to come
And on folk I’ve known and others that I’ve met.
And on wasted years and bitter tears and sadly squandered love
And faded dreams of mountains never climbed;
On survival and the value of the efforts that we make
And how fleetly fly the trudging feet of time.
Where is the purple-footed child who played in the frosted dawn?
Who was mostly alone and seldom without a friend?
A friend who simply was; who shared adventures and shared pain;
Who walked and talked and laughed with her back then?
Where is the pudgy, plain-faced child with the pudding basin hair,
Who found the greatest joy in the simplest things?
Who flew, on a thought, with the birds through the clouds,
To faraway places, without need of wings?
Gone is the child. Usurped! Driven out! Never again to return.
Her hopes and her dreams, long derided, have fled.
Her friend disappeared with her songs and her laughter
And nothing of substance has come in their stead.
And I, the unwilling and graceless usurper, at times catch a glimpse
Of the child who once was in the children who are.
Forgiveness denied me, I watch from the edges and yearn for the time
And the child that is mocking me now from afar.
Bio: Ruth says that this is about the resentment of the necessity of growing up and yearning for the simplicity of childhood.