Bluebell Wood

Children tiptoe through the bluebell wood
making no sound as they go.
It seems like only yesterday
we saw our children play
the games we used to do.
Now we smile at our grandchildren
playing hide and seek
in the same bluebell wood
where we did play.
Our hair maybe silver and white,
but we are still young at heart
and want to join them
tiptoeing through the bluebell wood.

19 March 2011

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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