I can still recall those day´s
of long hot summers
when mothers would call us in
on dry and dusty red sky evenings
after our long day at play.

We would tell our tales of
battles won and of the
den we built hidden deep
in nearby woods whilst
gobbling up our well earned tea.

I´d  head the stairs to take the bath
mum had run for me and I´d sit
and scrub and with flannel rub
at mud caked bleeding knees.

Wooden swords stood against
back doors ready for the morrow.

I can still recall those days when
we of saucepan helmets and of
dustbin lid shields ruled the world,
albeit with a melancholy feeling
for lost days never to return*.

I have flown on the wings of elation
and sunk to the depths of despair,
I have loved with a passion undying
and I have lost without even a care.

I have climbed to the heights of glory
and fallen from grace like a fool,
I have ventured through all emotions
and learned that life is so very cruel.

Now I scale the walls of uncertainty
and I am positive in all things I do,
I attempt feats of impossibility
and I leave nothing in my life to rue*.

Whilst walking on a mountain path
on a red hot fiery day,
I came across a small stone cross
and to myself I say,
I wonder who is buried here
and I wonder what´s his name,
Did he die a peaceful death?
or did he die in pain.

I sat me on the soft green grass
and examined close the cross,
to see if there were any clues
as to the reason for this loss;
I scraped away the undergrowth
from the lichen covered stone,
and there I found these words were caved,
“I lie in peace but not alone”.

I sat a while and pondered this
whilst taking in the scene,
a breath taking view to say the least
so tranquil and serene,
a perfect place to be laid to rest
I told the occupant out loud,
lying here with natures best
beneath the sunshine and the cloud.

I cleared away the bracken
then I wiped away the dirt
and at its base more words were caved
and it was these that really hurt,
“Here lies a dog, a faithful friend,
who did not leave his masters side,
he stayed with him for many weeks
until he too had sadly died”

I travel back here now and then
to tidy up and clear the mess,
I sit and chat about this and that
to my new pal that I´ve named Jess;
The reason I keep coming back
cleaning round this cross of stone,  
is so that Jess (just like his master)
Is not abandoned, left alone*.

The look of despair is in his eyes
a broken man stands where his child now lies,
the service is over the mourners depart,
the pain of this loss just tears at his heart.

Her name etched in brass burns through to his soul,
drops to his knees as the tears start to roll,
alone in the graveyard this broken man dies,
looking for reasons he looks up to the skies…….
Nothing!

He sat on a rock by the banks of a stream
he was armed with some paper and pen,
he jotted down thoughts that came in his head
his first poem was formed there and then.

He wrote of the music the water composed
as it danced its way round all the stones,
he wrote down the words of the water birds song
and he wrote of her colours and tones.

He wrote of the warmth from the mid summer sun
how it shimmered and hazed over fields,
he wrote of the dust a tractor kicked up
and his poem was starting to build.

He wrote about clouds in the Robin egg sky
their fluffiness, whiteness and grace,
he painted his picture on paper with pen
and the warm summer sun on his face.

He wrote of the calm that came in the air
as the afternoon started to tire,
he wrote of the orange and red glowing hues
of a sky that was blazing with fire.

He wrote of the Martins that took to the skies
the aerobatics and speed of their flight,
he wrote of a day that was second to none
the smells, his feelings, the colours, the sights.

And as the day darkened he put down his pen
and his paper he folded with care,
he rose to his feet bid farewell to the moon
and tipped his hat to all he´d seen there*.

Here in the midst of lake and fell
where lake-land poets once did dwell,
penned their words in romantic style
I too will sit and dream a while.

Sat at the edge of mountain tarn
looking back over field and farm,
watching Merlin and Goshawks fly
on thermal winds high in the sky.

The scent of pine from forest deep
red squirrels search for nuts to keep,
native to this Cumbrian land
to watch them scurry, really grand.

So tranquil here midst lake and fell
where reds and poets do still dwell,
the only sound is natures song
this is the place that I belong.