Today’s poem placed third in the 13th Kathleen Julia Bates Memorial Writing Competition.

Refugee Girl In the Playground

Watching you

I see a pale string

drifting       out the door

stretching back

to where your parents died

in a faraway war.

In class you hold books

as if they were gold

squeal with delight

when the computer comes on

and now you smile

clap your hands

your voice tap-dances with English

making it hum

in mysterious ways.

You eat your lunch slowly

every bite precious

eyes scanning faces

looking for a smile

a spark of welcome

making the day

learning so much

teaching too.

Duncan Richardson