Stomping Grounds

No one knew the secret spot where we as children played at night. The ashen moon, our only light, would greet us painted on the pond. The placid water, cool and black, would wash away the summer heat. The silty ground, cooler still, was soft and lumpy underfoot. Seaweed danced and grazed our legs below the surface as we trod. We romped and splashed and swam and laughed until we tired in the dark. But then one night, on way to pond, we spied unwelcome guests afar! One shape was small, one shape was large, and large bent down by small, Then made a quiet splashing sound and walked away alone. We returned in light of day – a first for each of us. And there at last I gazed into the clouded waters where we played. To mind came mantra terrible which echoes still today: Seaweed doesn’t grow in ponds. Seaweed doesn’t grow in ponds. For we’d been treading children’s heads, and laughed as hair had tickled legs. alapanamo