Like a praying mantis stands

This contraption in a park where weeds

Overcome the sodden turf.

An iron frame which merits another coat

Of dark green paint tinged with red.

Small feet climb rung by rung and hand over hand

To reach for a sky with sombre hue of grey (but sometimes blue).

Then, bums down on the slope of brass,

Shouts of Wheeee, Whoooosh

and other cries of glee as adventurous boys and girls

Hasten to the waiting, gossiping Mums below

Whose memories of stricken knickers are still aglow.

Onwards to the whirligig where

Wayward Tom shoves the smaller ones away

And, aided by his mates, pushes hard the iron frame

Going faster and faster, around and around

Until, spreadeagled like a chicken on the grill

Or a clock spring gone quite mad,

He staggers forth and spews Mum´s

Home cooking over his patched trews.

Such was the fate, sometimes, of playground bullies.

Last but not least, the swings of fortune call

The fearless progeny of Dads who flex their muscles

To push higher and higher the apprentice flyer

Who, one day soon, could enthrall the aliens of moon.

Such were the joys of playtime yesteryear.


by Roberto Cavaleiro 21 September 2024