I stand on the isle of yesterday,
maple sapplings necklace the shore,
the Army Band starts to play,
and Glen Miller goes off to war.

The old house yet stands high,
young pals come to call,
clouds float in the blue sky,
in the shape of a favorite doll.

My fingers, stained with mid-term ink,
play the piano for grateful relief,
the books are forgotten in a wink,
concerns on the isle are brief

The nights are heavy with songs,
and the dance is a whirl of smiles,
a time for which one longs,
after the journey of tomorrow's miles.

The isle rests in my old heart,
and I return whenever I please,
to where I remember the happy start
to sustain years like these.

08/05/2003

Posted on 08/05/2003
Copyright © 2026 Jane E Pearce