Playground (Poetry)

The image is still sharp as frost —
the break-time bottles rimed, the milk inside
bulging up to burst the silver caps,
grey metal crates stacked tall beside the gate
just where the hedge provides
thin shadow from a squinting sun —
and there she stands, a solitary child
in her robin-red and homemade cardigan,
watching all their games —
the starling-swarm of busy, raucous noise,
rough, swirling gangs of movement that exclude
and keep her wary on the edge —
quiet as a sentinel, eying their world.

Bottles now are neatly ranged in rows, ice is cubed
and optional, the play is all indoors
where lighting falls in warm exclusive pools
and, cheek to cheek, the dancers move
in a close choreography as music drowns
out words. She stands alone,
her shoulder to the wall, her chain-store dress
unfashionable — hopelessly uncool,
and sips a mineral water, searching round —
longing for one gaze to meet her own
and smile in recognition, walk across
belatedly to pick her for their team
and keen, at last, to have her joining in.