rolled on the harvest of a sun's tropical thigh.
Regal, asleep upon the eyelids of summer,
or stirring the azure pipe smoke folks in lore.
Inkwell Welsh hats inverted, dripping, and shinning black,
spluttering on desks by the crossed-nib wooden pens,
blotted Dalmatian upon a snowfield's inkblot story,
or sucked in a daydream that fast tattoos the spittoon.
Guitars slow sundown on a beach of boy / girl eyes
adrift on horizons dressed with cheese moon ribbons,
to wrap a perfect day of angst and hope,
of young love misty for everyone, everywhere.
Fishing on a jetty of moorhen creaks and coughs,
watching the float hypnotise the reeds into a
synchronised paddy-field of coarse fish hides.
A lunch of great reedmace fluff on this perfect day.
The caves of childhood bifurcating the days,
along the secret tunnels of mischief,
exploding into caverns of gleaming loadstones,
erupting into laughter, hell bent on tumbling down.
Childhood homeward plods with a sun kissed neck,
and God grassed knees from the prayer of play.
With but one thought and that of dinner,
for it was a long adventure down the day.
Of fingertip butterflies and elusive nests,
stag-horn beetles and newts supreme.
Onward, onward, the next corner turned,
until dinner calls, and dreams abed,
floating to the stars.
Dad's hand strolling along the whistle of a day
swinging to the discovery of the essence of it all.
He knows, and he will tell you what he knows,
as the day unfolds in a rich inheritance.
The compartment train clacking to the tracks.
The window steamed open in tunnel gasps
and smutty jokes from the engine around the bend.
Six minds in conversation build their day.
A majesty of Grandpa in grandchildren eyes
knowing there is grander scheme of things.
That you are a link in the golden chain,
a nostalgia for their future in your past.
Regal, asleep upon the eyelids of summer,
or stirring the azure pipe smoke folks in lore.
Inkwell Welsh hats inverted, dripping, and shinning black,
spluttering on desks by the crossed-nib wooden pens,
blotted Dalmatian upon a snowfield's inkblot story,
or sucked in a daydream that fast tattoos the spittoon.
Guitars slow sundown on a beach of boy / girl eyes
adrift on horizons dressed with cheese moon ribbons,
to wrap a perfect day of angst and hope,
of young love misty for everyone, everywhere.
Fishing on a jetty of moorhen creaks and coughs,
watching the float hypnotise the reeds into a
synchronised paddy-field of coarse fish hides.
A lunch of great reedmace fluff on this perfect day.
The caves of childhood bifurcating the days,
along the secret tunnels of mischief,
exploding into caverns of gleaming loadstones,
erupting into laughter, hell bent on tumbling down.
Childhood homeward plods with a sun kissed neck,
and God grassed knees from the prayer of play.
With but one thought and that of dinner,
for it was a long adventure down the day.
Of fingertip butterflies and elusive nests,
stag-horn beetles and newts supreme.
Onward, onward, the next corner turned,
until dinner calls, and dreams abed,
floating to the stars.
Dad's hand strolling along the whistle of a day
swinging to the discovery of the essence of it all.
He knows, and he will tell you what he knows,
as the day unfolds in a rich inheritance.
The compartment train clacking to the tracks.
The window steamed open in tunnel gasps
and smutty jokes from the engine around the bend.
Six minds in conversation build their day.
A majesty of Grandpa in grandchildren eyes
knowing there is grander scheme of things.
That you are a link in the golden chain,
a nostalgia for their future in your past.
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