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.
|| features@portugalresident.com
Roberto Cavaleiro first came to Portugal in 1982, acting as advisor to international investors. Current interests include animal welfare and writing opinion articles, especially with reference to environmental issues.
