by Nick Gisburne
Perhaps the children seem a little strange
So keenly focused on the game they play
The simple stones they quaintly rearrange
What makes them shift the shapes in such a way?
Afraid to be disturbed, they guard the gang
Determined sentries, infants armed with sticks
Around their scruffy necks medallions hang
On each a crude, inverted crucifix
I see the final pattern of their plan
An intricate creation, now complete
With all the force and energy they can
They circle it with ever-frantic feet
I find myself imprisoned in the ring
While tiny children point at me and sing
