~~~
Traditions lead to streets of dream
to scant abodes
beneath the green
So tiny
small
'neath gardens tall
with russet
stacked
above them all
~
Their chimneys waft
of fire's stoke
the meek step forth
though bashful folk
The pitter pat
of little feet
arise
the length
of Little Street
~
They take my hand as pipers chant
descend the street
with river's dance
Around about
the dancers croon
to every home
I'm blessed ...
buffoon
~
Tranquil glade amongst the heather
sparks ignite
the moods in feather
Flames leap forth
as cauldrons
coddle
tubers roast
as whispers twaddle

Pipes
I fill
and pints
I swallow

Tip 'em Back
their chant
seems hollow
~
Breaking bread
their stew
yumm - titious
though
in my head
their brew
grows vicious
~
Little Street
a fading glow
still ...
I was little once you know
The shutters
close
the visions
wane
their magic
carves
my hiking cane
Another day
another plane
the child inside

asleep

again
~~~