Sauna by the stream.
Bow and arrow cleaving,
Campfire choir supreme.
There were chit chats
Fat cow pats,
Some huge hills to climb.
Rounders - go!
A Grand Show,
And witch caves sublime.
Murder was played, and music was made
On saxophone, horn and guitars.
Juggling, diabolo, dark night fire poi glow
And sometimes just staring at stars.
Our firstborn spent two nights away from our tent,
Hunkering down with her muckers.
She's spreading her wings, now rarely she clings,
Flying freely to others for succours.
The smallest of us, made nary a fuss;
Took sleeping outdoors in his stride.
He cooed as the breeze billowed canvas with ease,
And watched washed nappies flap as they dried.
I loved to be able to laze and to gaze
At the clouds shifting over my head.
Hear magic unfold, as Potter was told
By my husband, to son, on our bed.
It goes without saying, that amidst all the playing
There were grim and gloomy hours,
Spent chilled to the bone after unremitting showers.
Yet, with mind stilled, fresh new hope sprung forth and
It occurred to me that We Did Not Have To Stay.
We could duck out.
There were no rules, aside from the ones
We ourselves fashioned, keeping us buttoned down.
And in that instance,
Nothing changed, but everything was different.
I felt a warmth for the first time that day,
Despite the lack of heat,
From thinking we were going out
To get a bite to eat.