Clay Children

On Badlands,
Surrounded by
Silence and
Greenery,
Children played
in the Coal Stria,
and Red Scoria.

They were young,
Small, agile,
innocent,
Drawing circles
as suns
without prompting,
Learning, laughing -
Moulding,
and shaping
to fit.

Much like the Clay.

Their Father
Yelled, he was tired
Their Father
Grabbed, their tiny arms
and dragged them into
the car.

He promised them
His lies,
that they would return,
when the leaves
changed colours again.
That next time,
they would stay later
and play longer,
That next time,
He would keep
His anger at home.

Then he wiped
the Red clay
off of his hands.

Nikki Satira