They sit together,

Heads bending close

Toes touching in parallel lines

Through tiny holes

In their faded socks.

---

Kettles and pots whistle

From somewhere faraway

And their mother shouts over the din.

She pulls a face, that might be her

In a few years, and the soft

Corners of her mouth struggle a smile.

---

He just pulls at his shirt

And whispers that they shouldn’t

Be late.

---

And towing a bat, a broken tricycle,

A branch from some sort of bush

Behind them, they walk.

---

Slowly. Past the rows

Of neatly boxed houses and

Flower-pot plants, until

They reach home, with red faces

And a backpack of excuses.

“We promise Mama, we’ll

Come quicker tomorrow.”