In uncrowded moments when solitude’s my bliss
my memory is retrograde with thoughts that reminisce.

Is retrieved time a true recollection—
or an indulgent instant of introspection?
Intrinsic thoughts of a dated past,
a personal memoir that cannot last?
If this life narrative is thus authentic—
memory has not been changed with a trick.
To fathom, to feel, and words to express—
those distant thoughts, to be found; to access.
A revelationary portal opens in the brain.
Firing cells merge electrically—to explain.
Stimulate the mind’s eye to former mode.
An effort that makes synapses explode.
Let the axon signal, the dendrite receive.
It’s the nucleus’ decision, I do believe.
You race back in time with deep reverie.
Those memories have a clear quality.
Fundamental feelings on an urgent mission.
Revealing the past with wistful cognition.
Rest, and absorb this tranquility—
then return to a state of excitability.
Revert to your childhood dreams in transition.
In wonder and trance, relax your position.

Brushed by the whirl of a transient breeze.
Hearing rustled branches speak in the trees.
Serenaded by birdsong at its best.
Checking the hedgerows for a nest.
Lying in a meadow, sweetly lazy.
Reaching to make a chain from a daisy.
Plucking the petals and calling a name,
as boys run over to play the same game.
“Loves me not”—says my daisy—I explain.
His attention withdrawn—to an overhead ‘plane.

Playing many games of mischief and dare.
Getting goose grass seeds stuck in my hair.
Rushing into a local ancient barn—
past a notice outside—that would us warn.
Sliding down bales of new-mown hay.
Strawstack jumping the rest of the day.

Entranced for a moment by a jay’s blue feather.
Floating down a cool flowing river.
Supported by an old car tyre—
with nothing left to require.
The Colne silkily drifted me
past my familiar scenery.

Seeing shoals of small fish scatter.
Laughing and joking in our chatter.
Pulling out some purple loosestrife.
Cutting it with a borrowed penknife.
Steering the tyre to digress—
then eating leaves of watercress.
Trapped by the bank’s shrubbery
near the grove with the rookery.
Pouncing at a sunny rock—with a lizard.
Staring into the current’s blurred blizzard.
Where the cows stop at the ford—
bringing the tyres up to the road.

We push and jostle, laugh and joke—
then someone climbs a sturdy oak.
They call down—”It’s a pirate ship !”
In the rush to climb it—somebody trips.
Others fight with last year’s leaves—
and some sing that they are forty thieves.
“I am Blackbeard and Captain Hook”—
says the leader with one fierce look.
But around the base of the tree
the girls are distracted by a fairy.
A twig made doll finely dressed up,
and on its head—an acorn cup.
A spoilsport gives a loud knock
and tells us all—”It’s six o’clock.”
We have to go—oh what a shame !
Tomorrow we will continue the game.

Gather up some treasures forgotten.
Tell parents—nobody had a watch on.
Plugging my ears at their nagging—
ignoring the threats and  finger wagging !
I fall into bed with a fatigued flop—
and know they will eventually stop.

At that past time of childhood pups—
wishing that we were all grown-ups.
Wanting to be far away from our homes.
Looking at adults with jealous moans.
Hoping that time would gather some speed—
to give us the authority that we need.
Independence beckoned with a crooked finger.
You are on your own—do not linger.
Exhausted from games and all that fresh air.
How much I now wish—that I was still there !

Realizing in this nostalgic quest
that this was my stage at its very best.
And this was my own theatre of play.
The variety of a countryside day.