Days of summer

Sliding down a heap of gravel,

a trail of dust- his legacy;

Little limbs un-tired,

eager to climb, perhaps a tree…

Hard to catch, slipping under branches,

over boulders;

Running ‘cross grassy fields,

swampy marshes,

one day a king; another day, an explorer.

His scrawny elbow scraped,

his sinewy knees hurt;

The smile on the face never fades,

dirtied too, is his shirt.

Butterflies and creepy-crawlies,

stray dogs and tabby cats;

The birds in the sky, too- his companions,

he seems frightened though,

of the fox-eared fruit bats…

In the mornings he leaves,

sits under a tree, avoiding the hot sun;

A blade of grass in his mouth,

with a few human friends, tales they’d all spun…

Sunset they saw from the Three-Kings’ Hill,

racing back home- their final sport;

clothes muddied, knees bloodied-

his ma welcomes him home…

Before he sleeps, he thinks-

Tomorrow, there’s to conquer another peak,

another day, another fort…