By Tom King
I liked my life when I was twelve.
Of all my years till then; the very best
I thought. I was out of bed at crack of dawn
And fireflies lit my way back home to rest
I climbed the brittle oaks in my backyard
To perch so high I could go no further up.
From down below the noise of living rose
Like steam from tea ascending lazily from a cup
An arboreal prophet, me, sitting in that tree,
Trying hard to see beyond the boundaries of my street;
Beyond the abstract reasonings newly gifted,
To one whose thoughts till now were more concrete.
It is well I could not choose to stay
Forever twelve and safe from change – I’d not a clue
The life I would have lost, the love,
The joy, the pain and grief I after knew.
(c) 2008 & 2013