Streets of Gold

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My mind aches for past trees to climb,
to ride my bike again,
To live on a whim, an unimportance,
to only worry about what I’ll get for Christmas.

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I want to walk in the sun again
and not be home in time for tea,
Go back and catch tadpoles,
make dens and play army.

 

I’d run around the playground,
throw stones and skim the lake,
take a dinghy down a river,
adventure and explore,
Back when problems were for grown-ups,
no tax, no fines, no penalties.

 

Thrown away like a choclate wrapper,
the childhoods misty and pale,
Take me back to when streets were gold,
Away from this life in jail.

​

2001