Sweet was the smell of the tender grass
on the headland by the bay;
as sweet as the taste of the honey-blonde lass
with a smile like a summer's day...
as sweet as the hours we'd chosen to pass
in the games that grown-ups play.
Children we were, though we'd have denied
any hint of not being full-grown;
for passions had called and we had replied
with gasps and a gentle moan...
'til the fires were quenched and we lay, side by side,
on a night that we'd made our own.
The lights of the town, like the stars in the sky,
were a million years away;
then a gentle breeze rolled softly by,
like an angel gone astray...
fluttering gossamer wings to fly
through the night to the beckoning day
Bright was the moon on our last embrace,
with those hesitant words of farewell;
salt were the tears on each youthful face
as, silently, they fell...
not to mourn for a fall from innocent grace,
but release from our childhood's spell.