Walking Lunabella In the Sun

Walking small-town streets, pushing Lunabella,

I count up sixty years of steering strollers

full of sleeping babies in the morning sun,

past rows of cottages behind white picket fences,

domestic sounds tinkling
through open kitchen windows,

the shush-shush-shush of sprinklers 

in flowery gardens.

Gentle is the muted call of dove,

in the big old tree above me.

The steam train whistles in the distance,

round low hills circle the town

like those of long ago,

and I am transported back to long-gone days

of dreaming of a cottage of my own,

and later days when I finally had one,

stuffed with leggy children, 

laughing in the sun,

when life and I

were young.

Life repeats and repeats the same refrain,

then comes full circle, under this big old tree

as Luna slowly wakes, 

opening her Old Soul eyes,

her gaze pure spirit,

smiling her sweet smile, 

pure love and joy,

her presence in my life,

the gift of my old age.