Playtime

A cacophony of noise
A dash of movement
It's playtime 

Slowly they drift out.
One by one
Then two by two,

Into the middle of the tarmac,where they gaze around,
ascertaining where to start,where to begin...where to play.

The movement gradually begins and the once empty playground is full.

The air fills with voices,giggles,shrieks and squeals,

so sharp,they make your ears ring. 

"I'm Batman," "You're on," "He's pushed me over," "I need a wee," 
"She's not my friend," 
"I'm cold," "Look at me," "Can you zip my coat," 
"I'm the fastest runner,aren't I," 

Voices that never stop.
Movement that never stops.
Chasing games,running games.
Tig,hopscotch,ring games.

And if you are really lucky you may find a stray hoop,left out by accident. 

 Feet hopping,skipping,running,tripping

Jump,jump,jumpity jump. 

Its a whirl,its a twirl,
Its so very quick,
There is no steadiness to be found.
Its dynamic,its pushy.
Its exciting,its shovey 
Full pelt freedom,taken at one hundred and fifty miles per hour,
By the young.
Their time.Their rules. Their play.

Ankle socks with frills and black patent shoes.
Trousers with holes in the knees and probably scuffed up shoes.
And as for shorts...have you got the plasters ready? 

And in amongst the hustle and bustle,the rush and push,two little ones stand.

Hesitantly gazing around.

A little more tentative than the rest.

Yet to find their feet.

They huddle close together

But soon even they are gone and playing

Today everyone is playing 

A whistle blows
"Freeze"
And it all stops.
Children simply freeze on the spot.
 Not a movement anywhere.
Still as still can be.

Then the second whistle blows and it's action stations
Everybody has a place to go and they dive there fast.
It's the race to be first,the most important person,the leader.
Jostling abounds and shouts of goodbye fill the air as friends part and go their separate ways. 

And the playground returns to silence.
Just a big open space.
Peace reigns
Until the children play again. 


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I'm lucky enough to see children at play every day and it fascinates me.
One day just before half term I stood watching them play and this is when this poem began to form...the dynamics of the playground and of four year olds who have only been on a big school playground for six weeks.
Linking up to Prose for thought where the real poetry writers live!