Peter Dale
Playtime
Arms out stiff
like boards to gather leaves,
yellow ribbon fluttering.
Quick, child, quick.
But you will not catch the robin,
no, nor that sparrow.
We used to call them spadgers
when little like you.
But I can’t stay here
and watch you playing
like my daughter
just a year dead.
And I’ve nowhere else.
Page(s) 77
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