by Anne, age 13
A band of children waltzed through the streets,
Searching and scouting for shacks where to meet,
And they came across one that was once filled with hay,
And still lingered with scents of time passed away.
“It’s perfect,” said the child with the inquisitive mind,
“Just enough space for games when we hide,
And look! Here’s a spot where we can study our books,
Just to be sure we can shoot, ride, and cook”.
“No, never,” said he, who was the snob of the bunch,
“Just look at the windows, they’re cracked; every one!
And we certainly cannot take charge of a house,
When the flooring that lines it is peppered with mouse!”
“I like it!” spoke one, who was simple and quiet,
“The size of the place will surely suffice.
And perhaps with a small cleaning or two,
The stench of the place will not resemble the zoo!”
“But just look at the gardens!” cried the one with green thumbs,
“The grass in the front reaches up to the sun!
Take a glance at those flowers, oh me, oh my,
I’ve never seen such handsome petunias die”.
The imaginative child took a scan of the place,
And with wistful tones, stated his case,
“Just picture the hours and hours of play,
That we could weave in to a warm summer’s day!
This could be the vessel for pirates of old,
Or maybe a palace for kings draped in gold!”
The group quibbled on until the last light,
Listing their reasons for the old dwelling’s plight,
As it was beginning to dusk, the decision was made,
And it was determined that it would stay,
And many years later, when the children were grown,
With houses and cars and kids of their own,
They looked back to the day, when they had discovered,
Amongst all the play, a world of another.