Hopscotch

Alison, Sharon, Karen, Sue.
You echo in my mind
voices bouncing off brick walls
and the steel and timber shed
we laughed behind.

Louise, Monique, Sheree, Leanne.
A roll call from the past
from a high-windowed classroom
an asphalt court
a wide back paddock
where we played

with Ross and Peter, Tony, Drew.
Wax paper blows up against
the chain-link fences of my memory:
the scent of old bananas,
squashed sultanas
and crunchy bread;
the sting of cold rain
at playlunch
skinned knees daubed red
and of being chosen last for sport.

Simon, Andrew, Wayne and Tim.
Milk monitors, hallway-watchers
keepers of the steel trough
and vinyl schoolbags dangling.

Jennifer, Andrea, Elizabeth, Kate.
Stacking coloured blocks of time,
building palaces and towers.
Thirty years.
Are you big now too?

And if I saw you
skipping down the street
in patent-leather shoes
would I see a child
or someone just like me?