When I return home from time to time I’m often compelled to visit one place and one spot in particular. Here, for a few undisturbed moments, the boy inside of me can slip out, clamber over the wall some fifty odd years high and once again happily drain fond memories dry.
Beyond the gate of no tomorrow
Souls lie sown in rows abreast
A weathered name bids me to come
I know the voice and where it rests
She knows I’m here again to stare
Through childlike eager coloured eyes
Not at the stone nor at the grave
But where their own sweet memories lie.
David McAdam 2014