He leans against the playground wall,
Smacks his hands against the bricks
And other boredom-beating tricks,
Traces patterns with his feet,
Scuffs to make the tarmac squeak
Back against the wall he stays -
And never plays.
The playground's quick with life,
The beat is strong
Though sharp as a knife
Strife doesn't last long
There is shouting, laughter, song,
and a place at the wall
For who won't belong.
We pass him running, skipping, walking,
In slow huddled groups, low talking.
Each in our familiar clique
We pass him by and never speak,
His loneness is his shell and shield
And neither he nor we will yield.
He wasn't there at the wall today,
Someone said he'd moved away
To another school and place
And on the wall he used to lean
Someone had chalked
'Watch this space'.
By Julie Holder