Yestergames Poem by Francie Lynch

There is a silence in the evening,
A silence I find quite displeasing.
It's not the absence of mowers running,
Or bedsheets flapping, motors humming.
The trains still shunt, foghorns blast;
Where are the sounds from our past?

It's not the sound of contrary laughing
Walking from a parents' lashing.
Something's missing, sounds are gone,
Familiar sounds from our lawns.

The sound of rope slapping cement,
Fantasy games kids invent.
An echoing slapshot before, 'Car! '
These missing sounds are so bizarre.

As dusk when hide and seek is best,
Those yestergames that we caressed.
But outside games gave way to screens,
I'd rather hear the children scream.