By Rosi MorganBarry
When I am old,
I will walk slowly,
while my grandchildren scamper and run,
chasing the wind, until breathless.
Together we will sit on the ground,
with our legs stretched out in front of us,
and feel the sun on our faces,
the rough-barked tree at our backs.
Together we will gravely examine
an earthworm, a beetle, a leaf.
We will listen to the pigeons, the sparrows,
(like the children they chatter and cheep),
maybe hear a mellifluous blackbird.
We will listen to each other.
We will talk of small child things,
and laugh together over funny words
and silly jokes.
And when they ask: ‘What’s that mean?’
I’ll have to say: ‘I don’t know either’.
When its time for tea, with bread and jam,
the children will haul me to my feet,
mindful of old grandmotherly knees.
When I am old,
I will walk hand-in-hand
with my own childhood wonder,
and simply be –
with my grandchildren.
