What An Excuse

The girls rejoice at being released

Into a sun-drenched garden, greased

With sun cream, ‘til their skin streaks white,

Like youngling seagulls taking flight,

To run wild on a bed of clover and moss,

The eldest sibling the barefoot boss,

Beneath a watchful copper beech,

A ball and ice cream offered to each,

An attempt to keep the squawks at bay,

Creates sticky fingers while still at play,

Before too long a ball arcs beyond,

Past the tree and past the pond,

Tears flow, it was thrown too hard

Into the next door neighbour’s yard,

There are toys aplenty, I see no sense

In children clambering at the fence,

But what an excuse to toss them over,

And lie supine upon the clover!