A Child's Garden of Verses.

A few days ago, my Granddad and I took a trip to Cambridge. Whilst wandering round the second hand book stalls, I spied a beautiful illustrated copy of one of my favourite poetry books, 'A Child's Garden of Verses' by Robert Louis Stevenson. However, in a momentary lapse of good judgement, I pondered over purchasing it just a little too long, and ended up loosing it to someone else (sigh)! The experience triggered a creative moment, and so here's a wee poem about the experience.


"The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as Kings"

 

 

Half open, it lay there,

Pages rustling in the breeze.

Eyes running over delicate illustrations, I spied

familiar poems from childhood

that had taken me on new adventures

as I lay upon the land of counterpane.

 

Eyes swimming in sleep,

I would transport to the window of a railway carriage,

and see through glass blurred by my steamy, squashed nose,

bridges, house, hedges, ditches,

and scrambling children all scratched by brambles.

 I would gaze into pails half full of stars and water,
and see the face of the moon stare back,
chiding me to close my eyes as only the
squalling cat or squeaking mouse were granted her light.

I would watch as another child made sense of his shadow,

bewildered at a lost playmate on mornings

when he rose before the sun.

 

Half open, it lay there,

Pages rustling in the breeze,

but with my head full of thoughts of halcyon days,

new eyes were captured by its weathered charm,

and new hands had grasped its broken spine,

leaving my hands empty.