Once, as but a small child can,
I went walking with my Gran,
Ancient then to youthful eyes,
Considered also, beyond wise,
Told me stories and wonderful lies.
‘Whence come all the flowers Gran?’
Picking handfuls as I ran.
‘They pop up where the raindrops fall,
Little drops, that’s why they’re small,
Such as gets more, grows more tall.’
“Then from whence the rain doth fall?
I spun around to see it all.
‘Whenever man is cruel to man,
The Angels fill a watering can
With tears in which they all shall cry,
Once full, they pour it from the sky,
Thus comes the rain.’
‘Can I not have such a can of my own?’
Wishing to see such flowers grown.
‘I hope not my dear, not any time soon,
Not ‘fore the grass grows over the moon.’
Tears a’plenty, broken hearts have bled,
Without need of the Angels Shed.
“Is there really such grass on the moon?
And are we visiting any time soon?
“Not you and I, so high in the sky,
But the grass is well into bloom,
With a wink of her eye, she pointed up high.
‘That’s why cows jump up with a spoon.’