Monday’s child
is fair of face,
She’s
black-eyed, poised, with curly hair;
She’s brown,
she’s Afro. Dark disgrace
stalks through
her mind; and cries beware
of Tuesday’s
child - so full of grace,
the muddied
road-child, thin and worn,
who slips into
the neighbour space
and touches her,
the eye withdrawn.
Wednesday’s
children, full of woes,
fearful,
careful, touch-me-not;
who smells? who hates?
who steals? who knows
what timid trust
there grows? knows what
their Thursday
hopes, with far to go,
will reach, will
hold? One smiles; lets fall
a web of
sunlight, soft and slow.
Comes back a
shadowed, shy “hello”.
Brown Friday’s
child tries loving and giving
her drawing
pens, those building bricks
of learning,
reading, adding, living;
Saturday’s child
works hard for its living,
and comes
dew-degged, fire-smoked, and why?
She brings from
nature’s reckless giving
a world-round
puffball, sliced to fry.
Each child, new
born as the Sabbath day,
skips high,
skips low, in one looped rope;
both bonny,
blithe, both good and gay,
each turns and
turns within that hope.
’Jungle bunny,
chocolate drop;
one, two, three -
hop;
tinker, taylor,
diddakoi;
five, six, seven -
hoy!
-
and out.
(1986)
