In the Courtyard
I drew the shutters back.  She was skipping in the yard
by the pile of junk and rusty bicycles.  It’s hard
to say why she’d choose this place to play.  I rather
thought that someone, a mother or a father
would come to fetch her soon
but she kept skipping until afternoon
looked more like evening and every time
she jumped the rope, her voice rang out in rhyme.
Beneath the crescent moon and stars, she was still there,
a whirl of rope, a song, a leap, a swish of hair.
All clocks seemed to stop as she skipped on.
I did not see her leave.  She was lightly gone.
Although I listen still for her skipping feet,
only the silent phases of the moon repeat.
Diana Brodie

If you have any comments on this poem, Diana Brodie would be pleased to hear them.

Snakeskin logo