I remember your fingers dabbling in the rippled pond,
When we were young and light of heart.
So long ago, a recollection of a clear beyond,
So long ago were we to part.
Just our pond, by the edge all rushy reeds
A source for wonder, and for jam-pot dipping,
A silent pool, where quiet enjoyment leads
With water-boatmen swiftly skipping.
The day was one of fish and mud and frogs,
So free and careless were we then,
Lots of moss, of celandine and rotting logs,
When you were nine and I was ten.
Was ever any friendship quite so firm,
Or our simple laughing games so silly?
We chose our symbols, each one in turn,
I was the bulrush, and you the water-lily.