Where are you hiding? The parents called.
Come out this minute, it’s time to go home.
They searched the camp,
they searched the woods,
they shouted hither and yon
until at last from the old oak tree
a giggle met their ears.
We don’t want to go home,
as their hiding place was revealed.
Hard-fought negotiation ensued
with promises to return next year
before at last they slid down to the ground
and sulked all the way to the car.
At Poetic Bloomings, we’re coming to the end of the Granada Camp for Wayward Poets poem a day challenge.