Our Kids Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

Years ago we bought a semi in a tiny town estate
where I'd potter in the garden or I'd lean against the gate
and the children from the houses built in our locality
liked to bring along a football or a broken doll to me

I would mend their broken playthings and we'd talk of this and that.
They could fill my heart with laughter with the essence of their chat,
or they'd come in times of sorrow with a teardrop in their eyes,
then I'd love to tease and tell them I was Batman in disguise.

How I'd sailed the Orinoco, or rode rockets into space.
Maybe hunted with Red Indians or saved the human race.
Then their eyes would fill with wonder, and they'd toddle off to bed,
who could tell what dreams were churning in each curly little head.

There's a special little dumpling, I would call him 'Shrimp' or 'Prawn.'
He'd come riding on his bicycle and blow his rubber horn,
he had that lovely kind of face that gives the heart a tug.
If things were good he'd shake my hand, sometimes he'd need a hug.

We would talk away for hours while he sucked his little thumb
then I'd give him fruit or flowers as a present for his mum,
while his tiny little girl friend was a star amongst the girls,
She could melt my heart like butter with a flourish of her curls.

But the years go by so quickly, and the children went to school.
When they passed me with their schoolmates they'd act 'nonchalant' or 'cool.'
As they grew to adolescence they were fair in form and face,
they were bright and warm and lively and they moved with agile grace.

They'd come walking through the garden and come knocking at the door
'Can I do your weekend shopping? ' 'Shall I mop your kitchen floor? '
Where are these troubled teenagers we're brought up to expect?
They greet me with affection, I treat them with respect.

I'd turn to tie a shoelace, or point a garden wall,
and when I'd turn around again, they're standing six feet tall.
Can that be little 'Thingy ' who lives in our street.
They've stood him in a growbag and poured compost on his feet.

Too soon the children leave me, to take a man or wife
as they move out of my shadow and begin to live their life,
there's a sound of little footsteps on my path like gentle rain.
It's the children of my children, and the cycle starts again.