Time is moving, still
Around comfort and corners
The bloom of well kept flowers
Will come again, be patient
Buds in beds, moving soil
Close enough to buildings
Missing the sky
Through the brick, lives
Bare homes and neat toys
Stacked, waiting for play
A mother clutching book bags
Lunchboxes and small hands
Trying to slip away, a father
Left before the light
Weekend, duty arrives
The pleasantness of parks
Branded buggies and empty art
He cannot buy the sun but tries
A wave without a smile
Jealous blotches, a loving hate
A regretful son before his rise
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