The Village Playground

Bahena Okram
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The school bell went...
As the clock struck three,
Came the joyful faces
With whistles and laughter
Of the much- awaited freedom
Like flocks of sheeps in a ranch.

Threw the tattered satchels to bed,
Took a morsel off the steel plate,
And off they hurried
As swift as a jet plane
To their favourite place...
The dusty open 'village playground'.
They have been dreaming about it
Since post - recess class.

Kites of varied hues and sizes,
Running after each other,
In the seamless blue sky.
The older ones the herd- leaders,
The younger ones, the spectators,
Following their every command,
Without delay and demand.
Like a trailing brood of chickens.
What a lively spectacle!

Some are busy with soccer,
Their goal posts, the bamboo poles
And their ball, the golden pomelo.
While the girlfolk are busy with their ropes,
Some others prefer racing,
And others rolling over haystacks.
Kids indeed!
Their minds know no limits...
The fruit trees are theirs,
The rivers and ponds are theirs,
The old road to school belongs to them.
Had the electric poles have ears,
All their small talks would live for years.

The sun has hidden behind the hills
And the cold wind is greeting the night.
Runny nose, chapped lips and dusty feet,
They never wanted to come home,
End the game and call it a day,
The village playground, their little world.