how to write pastoral my way

The pastoral is a type of poem that in some way relates to the idea of nature and utopian lost paradise (arcadia). At the same time more contemporary poets do a great job of using convoluted references and metaphors to only slightly reference the subject matter.
In my opinion the pastoral works extremely well with reference to childhood. Memories of old days have often this unique imaginative quality that with time becomes somehow removed from reality. There is something in saying that time heals all the scars and that at the end we only remember good memories. This blissful imagery, of the days and experiences that will never return and will never be possible to examine more closely (which could actually cause the disillusion), can easily be incorporated in the pastoral form of poetry.
In addition, for me, childhood has very close reference to nature as I spent most of my time outside in the parks, by the river, surrounded by fields and forest. In my memories childhood and adolescence always combine into one single, perfect image.
Imagine: a warm Sunday afternoon; yellow room, windows opened, in light the specs of dust float in the air, poplar seeds spin in the breeze outside, wind carries the smell of lilies and distant car roar. Somewhere outside people are busy, someone shouts, child laughs but in the room everything is removed. Three girls don’t need anyone’s attention but their own. One lies on the floor; paints. Another one sits beside; tells the story. Third one took the couch; she looks outside the window at the sky gradually turning purple-coral. Tomorrow is going to be another fine day.
I wrote quite a few poems that try to some way capture one of these unique moments. One that in my opinion is directly related to my pastoral is called ‘Turner’s afternoon':

May I bring to you the
Promise of summer, when
Air simmers in the bright
Glaze of the sun –
We’ll walk across
The fence of reality
Holding hands.
I’ll paint your smile
On my cornea, with
Lights and shadows,
Of young summer day.
We’ll seat on the
Bridge, and run our
Fingers through the sticky
Water, of the blue stream
Under our feet.
We’ll watch the world –
In Polaroid and sepia –
Spinning quietly
Before our eyes;
As we’ll grow old.

I hope it says more about what my childhood memories mean to me as a writer than any of my clumsy explanations.