Gait closer to toddle than plod,
too bright for a stroll and too low for a skip,
neither shuffle nor trudge:
a bobbing saunter, relentless,
inevitable and oozing purpose.
They’re after something.
Their green wilds of hair
swell like a plain tousled in August wind,
hands and feet like a drill team,
all white boots and flash gloves and synch.
Bash climb and mine,
umbrella caesura,
the waning quarry tap of the last three tiles,
warnings, pitfalls,
a click and a blast away from mayhem.
