We were waiting in the car – in a car park

by a river in spate – for mummy, daddy

and grandma to return. Storm driven rain

was tattooing on the roof but we

were snug playing I spy. ‘What next?’ you said.

‘How about singing me a song?’ I said.

You said, ‘I don’t know what to sing,’ I said,

‘So, let that be the first line of your song.’

We spoke of rhymes and repetitions.

And she made her song by the rushing waters,

sang it clearly, roundly as small angels may.

I don’t know what to sing.

I don’t know what to sing.

I can’t think of anything.

I can’t think of anything.

The songs have gone away.

The songs have gone away.

There are no songs to play.

There are no songs to play.

©Evelyn Chapman and David Selzer 2016