Real Child

I remember the joy of running through trees;

the fun that we found in picking up bees.

Then sometimes a tree just got in the way

or the bee would manage to sting anyway.

But the cast on your arm was a sign you’d had fun

And we laughed at our finger where the bee had stung.

Or we fell on our butt parachuting off the shed

And thought as we fell that for sure we were dead.

The beach umbrella’s busted and I’ve bruised my bum

And I know any second I’ll hear the voice of mum.

Unprotected from life we raged through those years

with plenty of laughter brought on by our tears.

And still we survived because we learned to bounce

and of common sense we got more than an ounce.

As from each cut and scrape and each bloodied knee

we learned in those days how it was to be free.

We always got home at the end of each day

a bit worse for wear but we knew how to play.

Resilience we had though the word was not there,

we just knew that joy comes from play and from share.

Now days I worry, I don’t see the kids play;

not the outdoors rough and tumble we did anyway.

They can’t fall off an Ipod or scrape their knee

sitting inside watching violent TV.

They need to escape, they need to run wild;

they need to learn what it’s like to be a real child.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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