By Beatrice M. Hanson
I Wish that I could travel back
to years of long ago,
to skip the rope or bounce the ball,
or spin my yo-yo so.
I’d love to hear my Mother call
for me to lick the dish,
or break the chicken-bone in half
to see who gets his wish.
The years come now in quick parade
of memories by the score,
the spiders web we filled with flies,
behind the old barn door.
The apple orchard laden down
with fruit that touched the ground,
and in the air a pungent smell
of ripening all around.
Oh let us run as children will
beyond the old cow gate,
the sky and earth and pastures green,
and miles and miles of space.
The chestnut tree upon the hill
was then our secret spot,
to lie upon the grassy knoll
and eat the lunch we’d brought.
The noisy brook came winding down,
so far and yet so near,
to bend around the willow tree
and then to disappear.
The summer day came to an end.
The sun began to set,
and like the youth we know no more,
the glow ,we can’t forget.
If ever there’s a Heaven
where all the old folks go,
I wish that we could only find
those kids of long ago,
and once again relive
the days of childhood’s
precious years,
