There was a time.
When a child cried.
Somewhere, in a distant memory,
Children became, but once forgot.
As, they for whom once being parents died in mind.
Old boys and old girls become wasted by life.
Once somebodies' mother, husband or wife.
Old soldiers.
Land girls.
Yesterdays heroes and heroines.
Paths climbed by time honoured sons.
Orchards laden with precious fruit,
Turning russet with increasing age.
Family's breeze onwards.
Through generation gaps.
As times always in a hurry, too much.
And after moaning and groaning,
They're talking in muddles again
Old boys and girls ,take their much needed naps.
Best times are the rest times.
Past times ,
Just precious recollections in foggy brown puddles.
(C) LIVVI