Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Amid the Playground

When the sun begins to beat on your back
And the sound of his voice, all shrill from slack,
Causes you to whine and groan underneath
The stroke of the sun, it's whipping teeth,
Remember he's but a little child who's out
To play, to jaunt, to take a long walk about.
Yet the sound of others who jaunt alongside
Make a screech akin to the sound of a ride;
A whirl of a hurl and you're flat on your back,
Trying to pick yourself up, and the slack.
But espying the lad whose been bit by rays,
Teeth of the sun, a most deadly met gaze,
See how he runs amid the children of she,
The woman who smiled and taught you to see. 

                Amid the Playground, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

No comments:

Post a Comment