Childhood, lost

[the_bobby]

Quiet air rustles the thin,
naked branches of a sycamore,
just out of reach from my
window.
It stands there so eerily:
an apparition of a tinge
of regret,

to forget,

the neglect given.

Pale rays of sunlight peer
through the thin, naked branches,
mending its loss, fending my
warmth.
It gives reason to be joyful,
even in times of drought;
water recedes;

hope concedes;

But:-There's always but.

Soft, long blades of green,
greenest grass, laying forward the
field of pansy and dandelion.
Useless?
Tell a child such plants are
just weeds; tell them some beauty's false.
It hurts,

the loss,

of a childhood, lost.