The Quiet Child

There is a child who sits upon the grass,
beneath a parkland's tree; quiet.

She runs every now and then,
kicking up her skirts,
dirtying her hems,
but she will always turn,
as if hearing upon the wind,
someone calling her back to quietness.

She sits still within the shadows,
light awkwardly dancing upon her face,
too bright for her large open eyes.

She flinches away,
but does not retreat,
the light is a stinging discipline
close enough to a touch
to make it crave able.

Knees drawn up to her chest,
grass stains like lace
upon her stockings,
all about her listens and is quiet,
so as to be with her.

Just before the sun
begins to settle down,
she picks herself up,
dusts off her hands,
wipes at tearless eyes
and goes home.