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

below,

 

or worse

 

plummet us

 

to reality

at the shrill tone

 

of mother calling us in to supper.

 

© by Bronwen McRae.

Used with the author’s permission.