Kid Philosopher

It is an early wintry morning.

The frosty glass on my bedroom window brings

to my young mind workings of the light dew melting,

forming patterns on my imagination flirting with

fading moisture as it begins its stream streaking of

random lines slow enough for my eyes to translate,

And for the clear veins to bring in my suburban world

until the ever-rising sun completes its work.

And here is my small world for today.

A hills hoist in the centre of our sparse backyard,

A flat football in a sand pit, crude stumps lay beside.

I spend these mornings

Watching moisture turn to visions.

Waiting for revelation to finish its task

And no surprise, nothing changes.

I think my life will become like this,

Free to think but chained to patterns.

Mum yells for me to get going outside.

She fears I am the prophet of our days inside.

Her impatience is never far away.

Lessons are for school, and not by dreaming.

I am to work, and should I toggle fantasy,

It is when I’ve got a thinking life.