Down the Hill
Down the hill, under the trees,
is a small pond, with water lilies.
Under a fallen log, covered with moss,
there, hidden away, a small tiny house.
In this small structure, you could see,
a wee creature, that looked like me.
When I, as a child, visited this place,
there was no one, no memory to erase.
Now all these precious memories of mine,
are thoughts, gathering dust of lost time.
I have this place, sacred to me,
where all my thoughts, are there to see.