Faded Play

The bus dropped me off, wet concrete underfoot.

Past the faded hopscotch, barely there.

Rain had almost erased the whole root

of some child’s joy, hanging in the air.

And then, a ghost of a figure, arms spread wide.

A chalk man, lying flat, on the grey slab.

Almost gone, where a small body had tried

to capture its shape, like a fleeting grab.

Just the memory of a shape, barely seen.

A small life, once vibrant, now a blur.

Another grey day, and nothing clean.

Only the residue of what used to stir.