MAD DOG LANE.

Those fields we ran
Like a fiefdom
As children
Were ploughed and housed
When the need for them waned,
And although they are
Thought of less often
Now older
When happened upon we
Realize how we spurned them too soon.

The original plains
Imagination
Ranged,
And creation was made
To last more than a week;
Cattle arches and dikes,
And hedgerow hide outs
Where innocence flourished
As high as the weeds
And nettles were all that we feared.

But time waits for
No boy to grow
Into a man,
And before we were teenagers
The builders began their own changes,
As dwellings were founded
With windows of
Matchbox proportions
That allowed folks a glimpse of
Their recently waterlogged gardens.

And though time should wait
For a field to grow
Into a street
It doesn’t and the damage is
Done by the peal of development bells,
And now when there’s no open land
Round the squares
We supposedly own
How can we moan when our
Kids spend their lives in their room.