Of Long Ago

There was a time when, long ago, as children, we would walk along a nearby green-clad laneway, imagining it was a mysterious place, leading to adventures of great importance and intriguing destination. We rolled down its small hillsides laughing, covered in the juice of onion weeds. We thought they were wonderful, with their nodding white flower heads and their bright green leaves of springtime; sunlight and heaven-sent leisure. At the end of this laneway was a swamp, and in this special place swam tadpoles and small frogs; also heaven-sent for us to capture, cruel children that we were, unknowing in our innocence that their fate would be uncertain. New frogs, with tails intact, would leap from their watery prisons into gardens devoid of swamps or streams, with birds and cats waiting for these tiny creatures, who, having left us, would most likely perish. Had we known, would we have cared? The laneway is no longer there, although in my mind it remains; a place of memories and laughter, of childhood and dreams, of yesterdays and tomorrows, of timelessness and promise, of fairytales and story-book heroes.
Inge Meldgaard 2010