Wild child

                                           You tore up the asphalt of life’s road

                                               and somersaulted fences

                                           You never reaped the oats you sowed

                                               to gratify your senses.

                     I’d wait in sleepless apprehension 

                         the clock chimed two or three before -

                                           with unrepentant condescension

                                                you turned your house-key in the door.

                                           You didn’t leave a trick unturned,

                                               you drank from every fountain

                                           You laughed at every bridge you burned

                                                and flattened every mountain.

                            

                                           Wayward imp, in some strange measure

                                               your restless spirit was a gift -

                                           Your reign on earth was crowned with pleasure

                                               and God knows, child - you really lived.

- Ann Scarborough Moore
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