Today, no one woke to the sound of an oboe scaling the trees in search
of the residences’ open windows.
The shouts have likewise vanished from the playing fields,
From the pastel blue pool cavity still host to an inch of water and soggy leaves,
From the bare wooden bunks waiting to be swept out.
Perhaps the custodian, if she pauses, will hear an echo
Of quadricep groans and twilight scratches, vows of friendship, malicious whispers.
And choruses repeated shakily around a pinewood fire, thus guaranteed life for one more generation.
A wheezing soccer ball lies forgotten on the green.
The breezes toss about a large white feather, awarded for
Some stupendous backhand swat,
Or the role of Tevye played under the stars.
Icons of paper mache grace the corners of the crafts complex.
Where is everyone? They have all returned to previously assigned life crises,
Treading their rounds
Like the mare now taking the familiar path between the barns
In the property next door.
But some mornings they wake up to the memory
Of an oboe’s melody snaking through their dreams.
This poem was published in issue VII of the Heron Clan anthology.
May 26, 2018