MWC: Leigh, USA
We met at twelve, down at the faded picnic table.
The children gave no shadow. There were games,
and guilty snacks in crinkling plastic wrappers.
No shortage of sweet apple juice, for thirsty mouths,
after clambering over painted metal castles.
We watched in patient pleasure, swings and slides,
and shared the age-old pleasantries of mothers.
Beneath the new buds reaching for the sun,
we sat in speckled shadow, looking on.
Until my friend leapt up, and shot across the bark dust,
a denim blur, to grab her youngest child.
A girl of only two or three, she'd fallen-
from atop the blue and yellow structure,
a drop at least of seven feet and change.
We inspected every inch, the wailing child,
my friend held her close and closed her eyes.
She was fine, she said, just fine, and kissed her.
And indeed she was; soon, back at playing-
all unaware, with wood chips in her braid.
We wiped our eyes, and tried then to remember,
what had been so important,
just moments before.