I wrote this after a tiring day of chasing my two young daughters, Annie and Christine.

 

Somewhere she lies hidden,

around a corner, in the edge of shadow,

her eyes, full and bright.

Waiting.

 

For the sound of my feet,

or the touch of my hand.

For a sign that she is found.

 

Then, with a smile, she squeals.

A flash of colour rushes by,

and small hands blur the air.

 

Down the hall she runs,

past each room, running hard,

as fast as her arms will pull her away from me,

into another secret place.

 

Somewhere, she lies hidden,

out of sight, in the edge of make-believe,

her eyes, soft and light.

Waiting.

 

For the sound of my voice,

or the touch of my soul.

For a sign that she is mine.

 

With a smile, she reaches out.

A finger touches my nose,

and small hands pat my cheek.

 

Then down the hall she runs,

past each room, running hard,

as fast as her arms will pull her away from me.