The bush, my wonderland,
filled with creatures and worlds
to explore, creeks and tadpoles, lizards and snakes
all abide this dense green and brown paradise,
woven into the imagination of the young,
adventure, pursuit, the risk of body and limb,
in this sanctuary of youth,
the playground of my growing.
Such fascination for life, each lizard and cicada
an eye-glass view of questioning,
and never a sense of fear,
climbing bare rocks into caves and more,
when each day delivered its unexpected artistry,
and eyes-wide we accepted each ride with ardor,
as summer drew its painted skies,
clouds long and windswept.
Lunch was a quick detour home,
cut sandwiches and glass of icy milk,
then in a dash for the door back to adventure,
mates together discovering, empowering the perfect life,
as wars erupted, so much blood and many fell
to our crack-shot skills, wooden rifles and pine-cone grenades
too much for the retreating foe,
and then to the creek to rest and reload.
As the light trickled down through the treetops,
sprinkling gold dust on a babbling creek,
the serenity invited and induced sleep;
on those sandy banks tucked away in a bushy nook,
we rested, wordless, staring into the rustling trees,
heart filled with joy, the simplicity of being,
and as eyes closed for a quick nap,
the cicada drone and bell bird song collapsed
into a numbing silence.
Time as it appears so often, seemed lost,
and as the sun fell down the other side of day, we woke,
and bleary eyed realized the fall of day,
as the trek back home a silent laborious task,
knowing the penalty for lateness,
by sundown our holiday pass,
and at the edge of the bush, the beginning of suburban sprawl,
we bade farewell, til tomorrow,
when our wonderland would call us back
into its welcoming fold.
Summer, when I was a lad.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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