Childhood Days.

a poem by Mark Ainslie, UK

Childhood Days.

The place where I was born and bred,
A great place to be, it must be said.
My childhood days of innocent fun,
Happy memories of things I’ve done.

Playing with friends out in the street,
Games like tick, and hide and seek.
The girls doing handstands against the walls,
Or singing songs as they juggle tennis balls.

Twirling skipping ropes across the street,
And then jumping in with both feet.
Hopscotch rounders and marbles too,
Amongst the things we’d love to do.

Playing football in the park,
Not coming home ‘till after dark.
It may have been six or even ten aside,
Next goal the winner, to decide.

Boys will be boys, climbing trees,
And making slides in the winter freeze.
Ride a bicycle with no hands,
Throwing stones and kicking cans.

© Mark Ainslie 2008





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