It's sixty years ago, the people say: <br />Two village children, neighbours born and bred, <br />One morning played beneath a rotten tree <br />That came down crash and caught them as they fled; <br />And one was killed and one was left unhurt <br />Except for certain fancies in his head. <br />And though it's all so very long ago <br />He's never left the wood a single day; <br />I've often met him peeping through the leaves <br />And chuckling to himself, an old man grey; <br />And once he started in his cracked old voice: <br />'We're playing I'm a merchant lost his way, <br />She's robbers in the wood behind yon tree, <br />The minute we grow up too big to play' -<br /><br />Ralph Hodgson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/playmates-3/
