Child at play
(In honour of Willowdown,)
We never met old friend,
but face to face is not
all it's cracked up to be,
compared to minds that think
alike and scribble words, that
touch the very heart and soul.
You wrote so many wonderous lines,
of Fox, and Owl, their many friends,
like PC Polecat, Simon Snake,
Moon Sister, little Oswald too,
that tore the laughter from my lips
and caused much shaking of my hips;
Such tales you wove of magic worlds,
each line, each word so sweet unfurled,
like a child, both innocent and wise
with wonder held within your eyes.
Then always you would make me pause,
when oft you slip't to sombre things
that caused a brittle tear to fall.
Your words compassionate and true;
though angry as the storm lashed day,
when writ about a girl at play.
A little girl, crafting with care
a playmate she will gift a life,
humming happy to herself,
oblivious of the world outside;
that you with poet's saddened eye
can see more clear than sun and sky,
will visit her come by on by.
Ah yes, dear friend, you understood
far more than I may ever know,
that we are but marginal in air
with light above and dark below;
that words once writ will never fade
nor memory once it has been made.
Au revoir my dear, dear friend
and may you write unto eternity.
Douglas Munday © 2016
Inspired by 'A little girl plays.'
Written January 2016 by Peter Crossland,
aka Willowdown, a true poet.