In the coming twilight
As the memories of boyhood fade
We cling to the past
To afternoons spent lying on backs
In the grass of the hillside
Under a tree
Dozing
Days when anything seemed possible
When pigs had wings
When every flash of fire was a dragon’s breath
When the time had come, the Walrus said
When, if you climbed to the top of the hill
To the top of the tree
To the very tip of the highest branch
With a stout pole
And with your Dad’s tape measure on the end of that
And with a frog on the end of that
With a long tongue
And a stick insect on the end of that
And wriggled it about a bit
You could almost touch the Moon
If
You
Were
Mad.