We count the dinosaur's toes and then we count them
again. Its rough, tree-trunk legs hefty with concrete
have been painted many times over, this time
in art-deco colours, yet they still retain
the original marks of the trowel.
The first child I watched slide down its long neck,
was thirty-six years ago, almost to the day,
a boy called Daniel, the son of a friend,
when fall zones, combination play pieces,
donkey rockers and tubular steel
wasn't as important as sawdust and function,
jungle-gyms, old wagon-wheels
and real traction engines. Today my grandson
looks at me with a composure
drawn from the sap of a million ancestors,
as if he knows all there is to know already
from here, but is unsure
whether he'll let me in on the secret or not.
For now, we'll just stick with him deciding
when it's time to leave.
Kay McKenzie Cooke