Guest Poet Ruth Smith


They move as a herd moves.
Every morning
mothers with infants
still attached
to a buggy or a hand
walk with them, side by side 
in a long caravan.

A child hangs back.
Some find it hard
to keep up
while others skip like lambs
or go scampering off,
mittens jerking on strings,
hats riding down,
not knowing why they run,
but knowing their mothers
will hurry after them.

At the end of a long line of cars
a people carrier lets out
a squirm of young
- and all are handed in.

As they mill in the playground
their mothers wave,
retrace their steps,
and a few look suddenly young;
themselves again
after the school run, 
though theyıre all ineluctibly 
caught up in the flux
that moves us on.

March, 2000

Ruth Smith's Questions:

Is the poem too descriptive with not enough thought?

Do you think the form is suitable?

Is the the ending too over-stated?

The Albany Poetry Workshop