Moving on

I love seeing tiny children standing on their front lawn at dusk. They're still in school uniforms that hang on their bodies, waiting to be grown into and they move. They move in a totally different way to adults.

They move their bodies and mouths and hands with a freedom that adults in their steel suits and shackled routines can't understand anymore. They waggle arms and extend legs, and shout to the skies. They use trees as fairy homes, and bikes as magical chariots and rocks as currency, mud as meals.

It makes me wish for those long summer afternoons when we'd swing so high, and watch the ball rip across the blue zone, and use a fish bowl as a crystal ball for a game of gypsies. Playing hide and seek under the cars, calling the cat the king of the colony, and escaping the prison by jumping through sprinklers. Bringing home damp pinafores, shoes, socks, laces and tissues to hand over to the laundry, waiting for tomorrow on the trampoline, the new moonscape.