In waking dream my musing turns,

And calls to times so long ago,

When my nostalgic longing yearns

For long lost youth that haunts me so.

 

For days and days, we’d stray through hills

Of sand, some distance from our home,

Untroubled by the cares and ills

That plague us now, where’er we roam.

 

We worked so hard, to say we’d play,

Constructing dens to suit our game;

A miracle now, I dare say,

We were never killed or maimed.

 

Sometimes we’d play at making war,

And hide within our sandhill fort.

We’d try to barricade the door

Against attackers we would thwart.

 

Then frequently a fire was made,

To cook potatoes from our house.

With carried water for first aid,

Our burning fingers we would douse.

 

Today we couldn’t contemplate

Our freedom then as juvenile;

Society’s in such a state,

They’d fear to follow that lifestyle.