What a rush, what at thrill,
As we travelled downhill,
On a sled made by our dear ol’ Dad.
It was twenty below,
As we played in the snow,
‘Twas the best time that we ever had.
Making forts from ice-blocks,
‘Till we froze our wet socks,
And our fingers were numb to the bone.
We just wanted to play;
We could stay there all day,
But our mother would call us all home.
We’d take off our mitts,
And then we would sit,
And warm our cold hands by the fire.
We would dream of the day,
When we’d once again play,
Just thinking of what would transpire.
Those days are now done,
And I miss them, each one,
I just hope that my kids feel the same,
As they travel downhill,
On a sled with a thrill,
Being children; just playing a game.
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The kids today have no conception of what good old fashion fun is...The days when we would leave the house and spend all day except for lunch, sliding, skating, snowball fighting, everything like you said, and if we were lucky, after supper, an evening bonfire at the pond for night skating if my father permitted. Spring, summer and fall and winter, all were filled with exuberant activity, outdoors and seldom in...those are days I would give anything if my grandson could experience the like. You wrote with such perfect detail that you brought this poem to vibrant life...good work.
Great job, I loved it. I remember the hills and the sled. I was is Nebraska as a child and the winters there produced snow. In Texas we don't get snow...some ice sometimes, but no snow! Thanks, Anthony
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