My children run under the spreading tree,
rich with the fruit of swings.
Disappear for hours on end,
cousins and new friends and dogs romp
around rich grass,
look down fondly
from their great height upon
of wet footprints on their forest floor.
I look out of the window,
feel time loosening its grip.
An ending line
curves into a circle.
Today, my children inhabit part of my history.
my story and memories
their story, their memories.
A house, a garden, a cocooned day:
as children, as adults.
Across the lawn,
straggled out in age order,
the three year old last in his yellow wellies.
I can almost see another figure.
A girl treads lightly,
the last full head of dandelion clock gripped gently in her hand.