The
car grinds gravel
as it swerves around the Virgin Mary.
It
stops in front of the gates:
the
car park – puddles and pebbles.
The
woman gets out of the passenger’s side
and
opens the back door.
"Come
on, now," she coos.
"It'll be fine."
One
by one,
three
children slide across the back seat
and
out onto the stony ground.
They
huddle round the parent –
ducklings
in an elastic bubble –
sheltering
in her shadow.
She
shepherds them through the gate
and
into the asphalt playground.
Three
children
in
the wrong uniform
cling
to her coat
as
she scans for a teacher.
A
large female
with
huge hands
spies
her and crosses towards them.
They
talk adult
for
a moment
before
the female
switches
to child
her
voice simpers
and
modulates
as she
invites the three
to
go and play on the bars
until
play is over.
They
move inertly
and
stand near the bars
while
the mother
weaves
out of the playground
issuing
smiles, like seeds, to other children,
as
if sowing protection for her own.
She
waves a quiet goodbye,
climbs
back into the car and
leaves.
A
flock of watching infants
has
gathered.
They
have seen the car pull away
and
now
turn
their
attention.
The
three circle their wagons
and
eye each other hopelessly
as
the silent tears come.
