It is not my childhood I search for
in these woods, for even in my childhood
I was lost – always on the right path,
but lost.
No, it is something else, something
in these woods, that my ancestors,
in their haste to leave,
left behind for me to lose.
So here I am, searching,
the walker in the woods on a Bank Holiday,
bearing the map of a child’s exploring,
home again, but lost.
OwnShadow 
I love the depth of time expressed here
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That’s an insightful comment. Thank you.
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I love circles, and this piece paints a beautiful one.
I feel a returning to and embracing of the halcyon childhood.
In the woods behind our homes, we were never truly “lost” as children, but this hue added to our adventure.
To return to the place in our minds where childhood felt carefree…to be lost in thought…
to return to our wonder woods, crayoned map in hand, to return home, gleefully lost, once again.
Seek peace,
Paz
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This felt melancholy to me, as if what was lost was there, but just beyond reach. Lovely poem.
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Thank you. I wrote this long ago. At least I found a poem on my travels.
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