8.45 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.
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?