The children squatted in a circle
around a space on the ground,
heads bent, hands moving
in a game I couldn’t see:
David and Stephen, blonde,
aged six and four — mine —
and Rini and Trisna, dark,
quick and thin, a little older.
Absorbed in their play,
unconcerned with us,
unconsciously beautiful
in opposite ways,
they spoke to each other
with looks and gestures
and with words they didn’t share,
the meaning understood.
In the centre of their circle
was a space, which they filled
with the business of play
and with communication.
There was no gap between them.
November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 19
Prompt: write a poem with a hole in it.
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