When I Was Young

When I was young

I would paint a picture.

The picture was often the same.


There would be a green field,

and running through it

a blue stream,

a tree in leaf,  


and in that field

a horse grazing,

cropping the sweet grass.


I grew up, of course,

and forgot the field and the stream,

the tree and the gentle horse.


My head and my body

were full of the world,

the delights of cities and the flesh,

desires and achievements.


And I had no time or mind

for fields, for streams or for horses.  


But cities become less bright.  

The body tires.  

Desires slacken.  


And as I grow old

I return to the green field,

the tree somehow now blossoming,

the horse in full vigour, grazing,

its mane fanned by the breeze.


And the stream, no longer just blue

but musical now too, fluting notes

I never heard when young,

but now sung tenderly

in soothing, timeless tunes.