We were shown the hills , not the mountains
Picnics by the unperturbed rivers, not the roaring, unscrupulous seas Saw the silent rain, the thundering drops of red – concealed
Shown the hands of fathers holding our mums Surmised, souls of lovers no one could dissever
Not the hands men raised on women, how their words they spread like injected venom When time stopped, worlds changed, years in transit from one to another
New winters surfaced but with a haze, fog cast upon known reality as all turned to strangers
Spring arose, as did the flowers and trees covering aplenty
making all anomalous, particularly oneself
Summer evaporated all of we, as Raging autumn winds blew by whispers of doubt and perturbation
Strokes of all colours on this great ‘life canvas’ of ambivalence But today, as we look back
at the small, picturesque hills the tranquil rivers
the misty rain
glimpse … the beauty in the warmth of lovers As we remember the mighty mountains,
the belting seas, the roaring rain,
the newfound realities, the path with many ways…
As we recall very stroke Every colour
Whether black or white Green or Gray
that painted us
with that forevermore imperfect, perfect consistency in this perfect, imperfect world and made us who we are today
All that comes to light is everything but…
every broken but pivotal stone embedded on the path to now one that went in all direction
but from it, we never strayed It made us who we are today
It made us who we are today…….
Explanation: Some carefully knitted nostalgia with each thread a “pivotal stone embedded” on our journey to ‘now’ . The writer talks about the universally inevitable phenomenon of change and growth while describing the leap from childhood to adolescence then adulthood and finally old age.