The girl's locked in the outhouse,
a boy climbs a tree.
Hiding in the brambles,
two maybe three.
ribbons in her hair,
with a weight that isn't there.
A wistful wind whistles
through the lilac hiding place,
telling of those who huddled there
when they were young and scared.
This is a Friday Flash 55 for the G-Man. If you write a flash piece on Friday, let him know. This is written in rememberance of playgrounds with steel slides and wooden teeter-totters. Playgrounds that were a refuge and a curse, playgrounds that instilled bravery when we were young and scared.