Memory hurts – our hearts are stung
But sometimes I think the pain is for
Not a particular place but more
A special time – when we were young
For freer days when we knew hope
And what we felt we had was – scope.
If I could tickle your toes, my Rose
And stroke your sumptuous bottom
‘Twould mean my dear, you’re here, quite close...
Let the waving world of leaves
Chatter away at the ends of trees
Let moons turn gold, let come what please...
