As I stirred in my morning bed,
Prepared to meet the day,
I heard faint voices in my head
From fifty years away.

My father, in the bathroom,
Clearing a lusty throat.
Singing in fine Welsh tenor
And losing not a note.

My mother, in the kitchen;
Her sounds are everywhere.
Her lovely clear soprano
Embellishing an air.

The shouting of my life-long friends,
The sounds of skipping feet.
Those happy games that never end,
The noises of our street.

I close my eyes and contemplate
A childhood filled with joy.
Sweet memories to meditate,
On when I was a boy.

And should my children, growing old,
Remember just the same.
Then even though Iím lying cold,
Iíll know Iíve won the game.

© By Thomas Vaughan Jones (



Watch these pages for more poems by Tom.
In the meantime, click the links below for other poems and stories by the authors at Lara's Den.

The Fountain

March Is Nigh

March Wind

The Fountain

The Social Worker

The Memory Jar

Golf Syndrome

History Of The Shamrock

And.......for many others, click the index image.

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