Rolling back the Years
A frost Dawn
Laying on the edge of a forest away from people who hate you, too shallow to care,
My eyes opened to a dazzling sunny morning a golden, watery, More
Where is Hope
Follow a path and it will get rougher as you go, don't let that stop you,
Daffodils will be thick and yellow on both sides, let golden colours guide you,
The daffodils will disappear at the woods, a green wall of spring will appear ,
Here the path is just footprints in lush grass, the smell of spring, heady.
There will be acres, and acres of thick bluebells, the scene will lift you heart,
Bluebells and the trees will darken your way, follow the yellow rods of sunlight,
Sit awhile, cast your eyes upon this place of classical beauty, a sight to behold,
The perfume of leaf mold, competes with the different scents of woodland flowers.
Be on your way after a good rest, by now you should hear the sound of running water,
A background noise, an orchestra to join the bird song high up in the branches,
Camped by the side a tiny brook, a man called Hope will shake your hand, warmly.
With bright blue eyes, and white hair, with a dazzling smile to make you welcome.
His name is Hope the Hermit, he will invite you to sit and enjoy a cup of leaf tea,
Stories make your heart sing but, there is a sad side, Hope hides away from people,
I sat with Hope for what seemed like hours listening to stories of his wonderful life,
He had knowledge about every subject we talked about, his words, like beautiful poetry.
The sun went down behind the tops of trees so it was time to head for home before dark,
I followed the path back to my village my thoughts and body full of gladness and joy,
Going to bed that night I could not sleep, Hopes words opened my eyes to a new world,
Tomorrow I will go and visit my new friend, we will talk about things and enjoy the day,
A caring lovely world, a world where you could see delight in the smallest things,
I could not wait for the sun to rise, to go back to see my friend deep in the woods,
I walked the same footpath, the daffodils were gone, no carpets of bluebells in the wood,
There was no camp beside a brook, no golden shafts of light, just a wood, Hope had gone.
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