When I was young, a million years ago,
The pace of change was very very slow.
Day followed day, unchanging, I recall,
And nothing altered much, or not at all.
The telegram was heralded with delight
Or else a sense of shock, maybe of fright.
The telephone stood in its box of red
Waiting for words of import to be said.
The car was something other people had,
Certainly not your average Mum and Dad.
And Sunday was a day of prayer and rest,
A day of showing-off ones Sunday Best.
Day followed day and nothing ever seemed to change,
And that, of course, was really passing strange.
Because the undercurrent flowed inexorably
Toward a future that we could not see.
And now we've reached it, it is in clear view;
I am a modern person ; so are you.
And yet we are deceived.......we've not arrived!
Change is the only thing that has survived.
In sixty years you'll write a little verse
(Better than mine......or, maybe, even worse)
Describing the quaintness of your early years
And boring the pants off anyone who hears!
*
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REBECCA'S MOON
A tree, a moon and eyes that see
How beautiful a moon can be.
Just from an iPhone and just last night
And maybe not photographed quite right.
We looked, we saw and were enraptured
And here a little hint is captured.
Sometimes memory can impart
Real artistry to a work of art.
*
