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
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."