Poetry Map of Scotland: poem no. 312

Playtime

out they come

small Lowry shapes
run, leap, hop,
shriek like trains
giddily gyrate
furiously skip
or stand in groups
in the rain

loud from a livid sky

thunder rolls and crashes
lightning flings its baton,
scatters them
like birds
with broken wings

they hear an anxious bell that calls them in

magnetised, they move,
iron filings to the door
but one boy
halts

gazes at the sky,
wet hands dripping.

Ann Rawson

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