A Golden Memory

When I was a young child about five to seven years of age. I noticed the neighbour's trees were dirty and sooty and black. Black with smoke chimney coal dust. The bark was ugly dirty and black the leaves were ugly dirty and black. And barely green if at all in most places, except a little on the side facing the sun. The sun I saw as a beautiful yellow light. Next to my father's garage grew these trees. They were really tall shrubs, but I was but still a young child, with much to learn in this world, ruled by mean men. Magic and the elfin language, still danced like sparkling stardust in my eyes. Next to my father's garage grew these trees. They were so sad dull black lifeless and ugly. I took a bright yellow lively house paint. And painted the trees yellow bright golden yellow, in all sad places I could short armed easily reach. But I also got paint on my hands face clothes. In my wonderful joy I got paint on my clothes. My apparently best going to town best clothes. My mother punished me for painting the trees. And the leaves a bright joyous yellow colour. For making a small part of this dull adult world. A golden magical shinning bright fairy glade place. For painting making a small part of this dull adult fading world. A golden orb magical shinning bright mystical fairy glade place. For trying to make the tired world a better magical place. Thus were childhood dreamers often beaten into submission. By those who failed to see the divine presence in dreams. By those who failed to see the magical sparkle in dreams. Copyright © Terence George Craddock