A Little boy stands in a curtain
He’s counted to twenty
and that was plenty
He’s now on one hundred and thirty three
But there doesn’t appear to be anyone searching
Not one of his mates.
Which is a shame
He really used to like this game
The hiding and the seeking
And the through your hands peeking
He liked the knowing he’d be found
The eventuality of it all
The listening for the slightest sound
The beating of his heart against a wall.
He liked being lost in a curtain
that was warm and heavy and safe.
Yet now on three hundred and seventy five
he longs for the handtouch that will set him free
he’s starting to question if he’s still alive
he’s pondering A level philosophy
about trees that fall in an empty wood.
He’s wondering whether he’ll be here forever
and whether this curtain is too good a hiding place
maybe the world has already forgot his face
and is carrying on about him
Five hundred and seven five hundred and eight
A little boy stands in a curtain and waits
to be found
Uncertain of things he was once so certain of
and hears the childish ecstatic sounds
of the seekers as they draw near
And his heart in hiding silently cheers
As he breathes in sharply
quells excited fears
Holding it all inside
But he sticks his feet out from under the curtain
Just in case.