Sad to Be a Child

Sad to be a child.
However hard one watches,
branches never grasp the clouds,

stuff which drifts like moods
and slips between the crotches.
Sad to be a child

whose play becomes to brood
within a brushwood fortress
where branches never grasp the clouds,

whims are driven as if scuds
and wishes come in snatches.
Sad to be a child

in a copse where dream eludes
the anxious reach that clutches.
Branches never grasp the clouds

just encompass solitude
until someone approaches.
Sad to be a child.
Branches never grasp the clouds.