The playpit
pile of sand
Had become
home to weeds
And broken
plastic covering,
So we were
spreading it
On the dry
grass, hoping
For fresh
growth in February.
My downswing
chopped into
A ball of
sand which bled
And hopped
out of the way.
As I mumbled
a ‘Sorry! Sorry!’
He hopped
again, skin torn
And blood
pumping from
A deep cut.
Was that an eye
Hanging from
his side? Or
Blood
opening and closing
A muscle? I looked
away
And pondered
whether
To let him
be or inflict
A killer
blow, and as I looked away
He disappeared,
well camouflaged
By the weedy
surrounds.
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