I was once a little boy
Nothing seemed to matter
Not too much anyway.
I think one of my main concerns
Was getting wretched caps
………….to work – in my toy gun.
It was quite a small gun really
No imitation Buntline Special for me. O no
I wanted the small silver one
Like the one the Range Rider had
It had a scary black handle.
I played with it for hours
I was content.
Long before I was an adult
I was a fool
I found myself drawn to violence
Street-fighting – foolish enterprise
Yet, perhaps surprisingly
No one ever got really hurt.
Days of innocence…if you get my drift.
Yet how quickly I learnt
How foolish I had become
I was not at all content.
Then I became a man
I became a father too
I became a worrier.
But for the longest time I was content.
Hard work brought its rewards
And the children grew into fine adults.
The love within the home has never faltered
And now, as I near the ending of my journey
I can recall, despite all of the sadness
Such happy memories, such happy times
And though there have been terrible illnesses
And such terrible loss…
I must reflect that I’ve not had a bad life.
But content? Not really.
©Joe Wilson – A journey we take…2016