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Echoes of Days


Upon the distant hill it proudly stood
as seasons call the winds of time to blow
as I recall the joys of my childhood
and picnics in the sun where dreams still go.

As summer ripens fields of farmer's gold
the winds return to catch the reposing sails
observe the feast of youthful days unfold
yet memories avoid finer details.

Grandma is sat on rugs, she's pouring tea,
her eyes are watching o'er the playing child,
the rough and tumble days when I was free,
of daisy chains while grandma simply smiled.

My ink and pen can sketch the lines at will.
echoes of days with nan by the windmill.



Author notes

Dedicated to my grandma, Winifred Farnham 5 November 2009

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Comments

1 - 6 of 6
  • Purrsanthema
    November 17
    Edit | Reply
    h, yes, I DO love this one so!


    • Ceridwens Soul silver member
      November 17
      Edit | Reply
      Oh for the days of innocent idyll... and Gran loved it. Odd how the little things we do as kids stay with us and pop up now and then.

      • Purrsanthema
        November 17
        Edit | Reply
        It's funny those things that stay with us, and the sweet serene ordinary things that change us for life: being somehow a place of comfort for us to return to in our hearts!

  • Purrsanthema
    November 4

    Edit | Reply
    Oh how I love this! It's dotted with such beauties! Line five is one of my favorites! I remember the first time I saw a wheat field when I was a child and how enthralled I was! I'd never seen something so beautiful! And that that, in truth, was a living sandwich before it had been killed and harvested! LOL! And when the wind caught it and it had waves like the sea, like a huge golden ocean, and it rustled. And then I walked near and saw the curious grains and how beautiful they were and learned what chaff was and what they were really talking about in Bible stories: they'd neglected to tell us and our childish theories were both curious and strange.

    I love the scene of your Grandma, and the rugs and the tea and the daisy chains! Here we've read of them but never made them: perhaps we have the wrong kind of daisies? Where I grew up we had prairies not meadows.

    I've only seen a windmill in Delft tiles, and mine were stolen or tossed away long ago, and National Geographic, and illustrations of Cervantes. They must have an unusual sound!

    What a gorgeous gift! It will never wilt or tarnish. and its beauties are forever filled with the most loving warmth!


  • Mairi bheag gold member
    November 4
    Edit | Reply
    I love this.


    • Ceridwens Soul silver member
      November 4

      Edit | Reply
      Thanks hun. It's gran's birthday tomoz and the fireworks will be sparking the air in her honour - yep I believed that when I was kid ha ha!

1 - 6 of 6