Dale Lloyd

Beyond the gently rolling hills, beside the clear-water lake,
the journey of my childhood I still love to make.
In this place of sweet repose—
water lapping at my toes—
I feel the joy of being home,
gathered with my childhood friends.

Many, of course, have passed away,
and yet they’re still alive—
and always shall be,
as long as memory survives.

Some say I’m living in the past,
yesterday obsessed.
God bless them in their judgments—
I know that I am blessed.

Reflection, meditation—
recalling what was then,
gathering the lessons learned
and living them again.

I see their smiling faces,
and yes, their frowns as well—
those contests for dominion
where we fought and laughed and fell.
Who won, or who prevailed—
who could ever say?
What mattered most was knowing
there would always be another day.

And we would walk on—childhood friends,
without a thought of where it ends.

Everything comes back to me,
even the songs we sang.
I’m content to know that forever
I’ll still be one of the gang.

Reluctantly I rise to leave,
yet I do not say goodbye.
Their voices echo in my own,
their courage steadies me inside.
They live in every chosen grace,
each kindness passed from hand to hand—
a love made flesh along the way,
until we meet, and understand.

And meet we shall—and when we do,
all that we once knew in part
will no longer be seen through smoky glass,
but known with perfect clarity of heart.

Of course, the time will surely come
when this journey I no longer make.
Another will sit where now I sit,
beside this quiet, faithful lake.
And as they pause to scan the past,
I wonder what their heart will see—
perhaps they’ll find a poem of mine
and, for a moment, remember me.

If so, then that will be enough—
that love was lived and gently passed along;
my life, a single faithful note
now sounding in their living song.