The Children

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The children are hiding among the raspberry canes. 
They look big to one another, the garden small. 
Already in their mouths this soft fruit 
That lasts so briefly in the supermarket 
Tastes like the past. The gritty wall, 
Behind the veil of leaves, is hollow.
There are yellow wasps inside it. The children know. 
They know the wall is hard, although it hums.
They know a lot and will not forget it soon.

When did we forget? But we were never 
Children, never found where they were hiding
And hid with them, never followed 
The wasp down into its nest
With a fingertip that still tingles.
We lie in bed at night, thinking about
The future, always the future, always forgetting
That it will be the past, hard and hollow, 
Veiled and humming, soon enough.

© Mark Jarman