The Lost Children Found

Two young boys

In the green light of their

Treehouse (having escaped adult

supervision), shake hands and nod their 

Heads. A pact, they declare,

Of most noble aim:

To stay young boys forever—

Peter gliding in the clouds,

To never grow up.

Because growing up

Is the most horrible of things.

They will defy that smoke of

Black, dig their fingertips in gold

For as long as they are able,

Till the clock strikes

Twelve

And Peter leaves them 

In the tower to be 

Prisoners of

Time,

And the

Handshake

Splits apart

Like ancient treehouse wood,

And Gold is smoke and smoke is air;

That clawed smoke of black is captor.

by HALEY CREIGHTON