Dweling on my Childhood days.
This time of year is always hard on me.
I miss the Snow and the old ways.

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Of Days Gone By
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I sat here dreaming late last night,
New Year’s Eve’s from my past.
Through youthful eyes, the world seemed bright.
Upon that World my net, I cast.

Processions to the Village green,
The Yuletide Tree was carried on high.
An offering to the nighttime Queen
The flames they licked with a gentle sigh.

We danced around it, Deosil.
Hand in hand, we laughed and we sang
Then tired and weary to the ground we would spill.
In the distance heard the Church Bells ring.

From the embers hot spuds were pulled.
Hot melted butter lots of salt.
Mugs of Mead warm and Mulled.
Listened to stories of days of old...

Of ancient warriors brave and bold.
When Gods walked and talked with men.
Hunting Boar in winter’s cold.
And Ghosts and Spirits roamed the Fen.

Tired and weary we start to leave.
The mist comes rolling across the Moor.
Homeward bound we wend and weave
Hearts filled with the dreams of ancient Lore.

How I miss those simpler times
That haunt my dreams and memories past.
When I lived in cooler peaceful climes
I weep at how the years have passed.


Robin. A. Spicer

© 01/01/2004