I told them, over and over again ‘Don’t go down Glyndwr Street’. What a fool I was.
It was the summer holidays, a delightful oasis for them, a seemingly endless trial for me. I had run out of patience and shouted at them to get out of my hair.
The peace and quiet was such a relief.
Until they didn’t come back at tea-time, ransacking the kitchen cupboards for biscuits, crisps and orange squash.
I knew.
I ran as if wings had sprouted from my feet. I got there just in time to see them skipping off into the distance, holding hands. I stared as their shadows grew dark, as my darling girls faded and disappeared.
There they are now, forever embedded in the paving stones, together with remnants of the other careless souls.
