Mysteries hold the young in thrall,

their hands reach out to touch the winter's glow

with throbbing hearts to the joy of all.

 

Into the colourful glades of polystyrene

I stare, can't be fooled, a sickly cynic

'cause the magic's not there. 

 

But age remembers those far off days

and somehow the hunger leaves a hole

that longs to be filled.

 

Now Mummy and Daddy have gone

let go of my old hand,

off to other places to sample what children sense

that other world of never never land.