Celluloid Poem by Mark Heathcote

Starting with every childish-caper
one day, sat back in your rocking chair.
Skin and bones like crinkled crepe-paper
we'll remember our lives-lot, its full-share.
Changing like caterpillar's amorphous
catching toads and newt's black tadpoles.
From red, white, and gold carousel horses
attached to their shiny brass poles.
From blowing bubbles on holidays,
from climbing trees to that first-true kiss,
we'll remember all our friends, our protégés
those-dreamy days we-spent-in-lost-remiss.
Hauntingly they'll flood back even with dementia.
As the rocker leans back and forwards
doesn't matter if you're some worsening amnesiac.
It's been a good day; there are no mourners.
Sure, seesaws have a pivotal point.
After golden memories, turn celluloid.