Sundays in Our Woods

Lonely in the new house,

Dad, my new best friend.

Fifty years apart,

but yet so much alike.

•

Sunday lunch is over,

our bikes are calling us.

Cycle clips on,

safety checks done,

so much to prepare.

•

At last it’s time to ride,

across the road we dash.

Through the park,

near the river,

so close to the edge.

•

The smell of earth and water,

stirs old familiar feelings.

Gardeners tend allotments,

as water hurries past the weir.

•

The sound of small planes,

children’s laughter,

football on the field.

No time to linger —

Our Woods is calling,

off the river path we go.

•

Me cycling off road,

Dad walking close behind,

through weeds, trees, brambles we trek.

At last we reach,

our secret place,

a clearing in the woods.

•

One tree stands apart,

rope hanging for me,

so I swoop through the air, carefree.

A lonely pylon I spot,

majestic and huge,

invisibly powering the town.

•

A special place,

no worries here —

until the church bell jars.

Three o’clock.

Reality hits.

Homework calls me back.

•

A few years pass,

Dad is gone,

Our Woods now overgrown.

But in my heart,

cherished Sundays remain,

living quietly within.

•

© 2025 Alan J. Edmonds