That is how it was.
Rosebud laminate hood of pram,
matches, moss lost to gutters,
murmuring girls, stand gauche among gardenia,
mother's gossip floods across the fence,
the senseless mutter of ample others.
My ill informed ears seemed cauliflower patched,
paraded down allotments leased to space and thyme;
where father shook the soil out of hatching plans,
miming Sinatra, coughing on catarrh and laughter.
Now strained inside my ready made life,
I listen for my softly strolling son.
His allotted space ablaze, my mind's asunder,
he runs amok through lightening rain and thunder,
leaving behind not one speck of dust,
much more than his song just sung.