Playtime from the Classroom Window

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It’s as if nothing’s changed:
they go galloping out,
trample through the seagulls’ camp,
secure slowly round and close corrals.

Young manes flutter,
heads toss vain bravadoes.
Suddenly feet shift,
break into movement;

eddies of delicious panic
churn in on themselves;
splashing shrieks drench
the towering cliffs of sky,

then subside, lapping
round the million stars
like a spent froth
of useless S.O.S. It is

as if death’s not long pounced
and dragged one off –
what isn’t, never was,
declare their brazen eyes,

so does the quietening bell
calling the children in, 
while the seagulls circle back
to reclaim their domain.

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