There’s a small girl doing cartwheels
across the frosty grass in the park.
Starting near the swings and the slide,
over and over and over, down to the
frozen duck pond.
Over she goes, hand over to foot over
to foot to other hand and back to first
hand again. And again. And again.
Over she goes.
You’d think her fingers would be cold.
You’d think her parents would be yelling
at her to put on gloves, a scarf, a hat.
Telling her off – there could be dog turds,
broken bottles, needles on the ground.
No sound here though.
Fog-deadened to mute.
Over she goes, a fraying ponytail,
a skitter of fleece and denim and scuffy
trainers. White puffs of giggle-breath
float up to the grey-glaring sky, baby fluffs
of happiness uncontained, wriggling away
on the winter-raw air. Dented crunches
of frozen grass show where she’s been.
Over and over and over.