No one hurries about, not like my grandparents did,
Life has changed in sixty years,
But the meadow doesn't change,
The happy, cold little creek never changes.
The cold water comes from melting ice and springs
Way up in the mountain.
The water is cold ever in July,
It is a magical place, this meadow.
We kids played
Sacks-on-the-Mill,
And we jumped in the mounds of hay.
We had no bought toys, just our imagination.
And catalogs, we loved catalogs.
We hunted for buttercup flowers and four-leaf clovers.
It was a hunt like a hunter hunts and stalks.
We were never bored and always needed more time to play,
Night came early, so did morning and hot breakfasts.
© By Brier (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)
