Two girls on the swings talk
now in harmony, now not.
The elder tells of a planet
so far distant that we can never learn
of the lives of those likely living there.
     The younger will not understand
why her sister confides it makes her sad.
     A nursery rhyme, a song of the valley;
granddmother's whisper, the elder explains.
Over the mountains it is unheard of.
And news from beyond our green depression,
like full sunlight drenching these slopes, is rare.
     Now the younger speaks: big sis, a girl 
could fall from a swing, crack her head easy as
pouring custard. A girl could marry a beast
easy as plaitting her golden hair. Sis,
our love survive each catastrophe set to come;
it's all I'd ask my saviour.
     With swing-chains still creaking they click open 
the little park gate. It clicks itself shut.
     By their own neat garden the sad girl looks long
at her younger self then speaks: darling,
tell mamma I'm going to see Josie 
about that mandolin. The child dances indoors
and the elder is pulled by magnets
to her meeting with perfect Jimmy.