Boys Flinging Mud-Pies! Poem by Ross DixPeek

Boys Flinging Mud-Pies!


My mind harks back to another day,
To Africa and a shallow riverbed,
Three young boys at play,
Wet mud all about and overhead

We’re playing our favourite game,
The “Art” of flinging mud-pies,
Hiding, and taking careful aim,
Shrill laughter fills the skies

The “enemy” clearly in sight,
Mud “loaded” on the end of a stick,
The Sun so very warm and bright,
And then, “Bombs Away” with a deft flick

“Got Him” I yell with sheer glee,
But not long is it before
A thick dollop of wet clingy mud strikes me,
“Ah, damn” I shout with a happy roar

What fun, all day we would scurry
To and fro in that old riverbed,
In a paroxysm of playful flurry,
As the Sun slowly waned overhead

All muddied and gooey,
And very dirty we were,
Truly, it was ecstasy,
The day just one big happy blur

And then, unfortunately, the time would come
And we would have to go,
Always made us feel a bit glum,
Trudged back home so very slow

And as we left that old riverbed,
I would always look back,
And still it lives in my mind, never dead,
A well-worn memory, a mental bivouac!