They ran these shores and swung these swings
And flew off into fantasy,
Their voices heard across the sound
As joy was its own sanity
I watched them from a spiral height:
My precious charges’ artlessness
An essay in supreme delight:
A perfect moment — marvelous —
But time moves on, and so do we.
They grew up, old, and moved away,
Their voices only shadows now
That blend into the creeping
Gray
