Orchard Road

Walking down that beaten path,

and up that cobbled lane.

I journeyed to the crown of the hill,

the place of the beacon’s flame.

Time stood still,

for not even time could reach as high

as the old mill, beside the ancient hill,

and down that ageing cobblestone lane.

The rustle of the olive trees,

echoes down old Orchard Road,

and blends into the sound of night,

to join the blackbird's mode.

The amber leaves beneath the trees,

hear the ghostly call,

of the distant wind as it rushes in,

swooping leaf and all.

A child’s play, innocent in game,

makes its way down the path,

a skip and a song, with a laugh just as long,

unaware that all adults become the same.

These memories of old Orchard Road,

a childhood spent sublimely,

the place of infinite freedoms,

and younger years used so timely.

The resonance of my grandfather’s clock,

and as it dawned through the window, the sky,

a day of promised fortunes,

to a child’s naïve, spotless eye.

The store down on the corner,

that sold children’s hopes high and fast,

the freshly made aromas,

earthly scents made to last.

There I spent my summers and winters,

the fountain of my youth,

which was drunk from too fast, relegated to past,

now a smile remembering a truth.

As the world tumbles and turns, I search for my place,

and memory seeks for the ‘how’,

a time that is now lost, bright sunshine to frost,

what will be my Orchard Road now?