Sonnet - lines on an old stone wall
Strange, how a wall comes to have great value
this sight which lacks meaning to passing eyes,
but i played out my childhood in this view
saw me playing and heard my childish cries.
My father knew well, this wall, intimate
he played along here on his way to school,
and, maybe, stopped to look back, from the gates
to see a later child, play the same fool.
There's nothing much left of our vanished past
a few bricks, here and there and these old stones,
blackened and weather worn but these, perhaps,
trace paths back to childhood, and to a home.
Eight generations of us, passed this way
but that, alas, was all our yesterdays.