Childhood Return Poem by Alan Cooper

I think perhaps, the worst mistake,
It e'er befalls, a man to make,
In later years, when he has leasure,
Is to visit scenes of childhood pleasure.

The secret place, where he was king,
With Robin Hood, and gang, did sing,
Where he, Dick Turpin daily rode,
And hidden trails, with Hawkeye strode,
Is now revealed, as quite small wood,
Where once he thought, great forest stood.

The river, he, in mind's eye saw,
As wide as Danube, after thaw,
Now becomes, to eye unclouded,
As babbling brook, by willows shroud,
Fierce rapids, he as a boy, did shoot,
Scarce reach the top, of wading boot,
And bigger shock, is yet in store,
The island it is gone, is no more.

The fortress isle, that he and friend,
Against the pirates, did defend,
Washed away, o'er passing years,
Its absence, brings reluctant tears,
The knowledge grows, too late it seems,
By such return, a childhood shattered dreams.