Life is a Picnic

I drag my tottering feet, across the flowery carpet,

The little girl hops and skips, holding onto her basket,

The dry leaves rustle in discomfort, in the gentle breeze they flip,

We look for a spot to settle down, with ginger ale to sip.

I glance at the felled tree trunk, that once used to tower,

The li’l girl seems to have noticed, only the purple flower.

I see myself grey and shrivelled, a sorry sight to behold,

She prances around barefoot, mindless of the nipping cold.

“Grandma, what is the use of the stump of the chopped tree?”

“Kid, it served its purpose, tis time to set it free.”

I know the axe will strike one day,

And I’ll move over to make way,

For the first offshoots of the saplings of Spring

To tell a new tale, a new song sing,

But its still autumn; it is the time to shed

Wispy leaves, and lie next to the violet flower bed,

So I revel in the company of my grandchild, 

And go on a flight with her imagination wild.

The brook at the back gurgles and splashes,

As my life swims before my eyes in brief flashes,

I tell her of the times I was a little girl,

Like her o’er the scrunchy leaves I would twirl,

She laughs at the funny image conjured,

Mindless of the sighs of the mighty tree injured,

But is that not the circle of life,

Mirth and glee before grief and strife?

I pick an apple and offer her another,

And we dig into the fruit cake baked by her mother,

She listens in awe to the stories I tell,

Of the time I’d fallen into the well,

Of the time a tiger had followed me,

Begging for my banana loaf recipe!

Incessantly we blabber like there’s no tomorrow,

Unstopping we laugh like there’d never been sorrow,

I stop to catch a breath, and churn another tale,

We take the last few sips of the ginger ale,

Tomorrow the men will take away the trunk axed,

The stump will stay with the flowers relaxed,

And the little girl each year will retell the stories told

By her Grandma when she was six years old.