We’d scramble up the fence
peeled with winter winds,
balance beam across the cement wall
onto the roof of the neighbour’s house,
hoped their hearing aids
were still on the night table.
Flit across shingles to neverland
to spar with our shadows. In that blue sky
kingdom we’d pass secret laws and decrees
to former authority figures
now scuttling subjects
always loyal to our rule.
School and parsnips are banished from our empire.
The wrapping of winter scarves will now
be limited to necks only
and never foreheads.
We will in no way ever again kiss
Aunt Greta with the moustache.
We danced and twirled
like dusty sweeps
knowing one false step
would blow us over the eaves
to the emptied pool
at the shrill tone
of mother calling us in to supper.
© by Bronwen McRae.
Used with the author’s permission.