watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.
when we made boats.
of halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.
when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on dusty driveways and paths.
when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.
when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.
as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.
in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.
looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.