Where flowers grow at the hill top’s crest
A ring, no a crown, of pink, white and blue
A picnic place, indeed, grandfather’s best
And the heights there offer a splendid view

In gingham, the spread-out blanket is dressed
Where smiles adorn all the faces with joy
Sit yourself down at a corner, live life at its best
You can almost hear Grandpa’s corduroy

Delights are prepared, in the basket contained
With the plates and the forks and the napkins
I’ll stop here though other memories remain
Memories of loss, and of young loves secret sins

I can still smell the chicken wrapped in a cloth
And the bread's yeasty smell, warm and fresh
I can taste the sweet dressing of Gran’s coleslaw
Oh, God, how I miss living life at it best

10/08/2019

Posted on 10/08/2019
Copyright © 2025 Brian Francis