I may well appear old and distantly decrepit now
Yet, still, I breathe – in these golden syrup leaves that dance oh so flagrantly atop these sycamore trees of ours
Wickerwork words of encouragement which you lean on in time again and gently press against my listening ear
Fear not, for I have lived my life as only I can, met chance immediately by the middle – never, ever ran
Dastardly by the only nature I know best
Released my fleeting demons into the wild, terrific circles of fire still own the sight between wrinkled eyes
Tapestried memories that choose to dance gladly via the innermost workings of the kind, kind mind, of times fallen oh so prettily by
My, oh my, how we do choose to see the things that we dream of seeing, the rest incredibly free to hindsight interpretation
I worshipped it all, every next sentimental bit
Now, please, sit with me and try and attempt to breathe remarkably akin

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