Small feet follow the secret paths,
Paths that lead to adventure’s,
played through the scrub and trees.
In the small glen where freedom was everywhere.
The secret tree hut, watch tower.
Shelter from the enemies that pursued me.
A place to see the wildlife
which the imagination transformed into monsters.
To lie in the fallen leaves and watch the clouds.
Faces and being’s formed in their shapes.
Drifting by where time mattered not.
A stick , a magic wand.
Bird song a code only I could know.
Know which plants to eat.
Berries that were sweet.
Secrets I would keep.
The dead forest, the swamp land.
Newts and frogs lived there.
Witch’s, swamp monsters kept watch’
Not a place to linger.
To know where the Sparrow hawk nested,
Sit beside the rabbit’s in the wild.
See the Hare play on the open hill.
Mice scurry around the dry stone wall.
Today I sit an older man’
Memories drift like clouds.
Wild berries in my hand.
Birds speak and I understand.
Photo: The Mourne Mountians, rain clouds passing.