Dawn cries to our hill, foretelling of day,

with deep shadows brightening, tree tops enlightening

the jackdaws, whose wing flaps and foot hops prepare them

as aerospace sky-students pre-warming to fly.

 

Bed clothes reject us, for now we must rise

to gulp down our porridge which tells us – surprise –

no need for our satchels, our bonnets, our books –

we’re here for our holidays, yes, that’s how this looks.

 

“Here’s daytime – you’re waking”, Sun shouts to the sky,

Insisting on freshness, telling clouds to move by,

“I’m setting my stall out, my work now begins,

I’m showing creation, if you see this, you’re in”

 

Nocturnal sky-clarity sharp-crisp stabs the air,

a dancing night fairy has made the view fair -

Crystalline grass blades snap-crackle and crush,

our shoes go all squelchy, beneath mud’s morning crust.

 

Timid we tip toe from house to the road,

careful of bottles placed by the door,

heads hurting, chill-aching, hands finger-flexing

our feet numb, gone frigid, turned aching frost-sore

 

We stamp them and stagger in mock frozen rigour

zombies of coldness, we can see our own breath.

 

This is no school-day, no prison of minds

today we go playing – wherever we like.

 

We’ll go up on the hill, where the horses opine

upon various grasses, polos and time –

itself the object of our fascination,

for we have some, it’s precious,

we don’t want to spend it

on chores and odd jobs,

or waiting for Dad

as he messes about,

unused to our shouts of rising excitement,

of running with glee,

up the muddy frost-footpath,

to catch glimpses of sea.

 

This is the life, aged eight, five and three.

 

Oh, Mum would but scold us, but hey – we are free.