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Elizabeth Bishop - Squatter`s Children
Work rating: Medium

On the unbreathing sides of hills
they play, a specklike girl and boy,
alone, but near a specklike house.
The Sun`s suspended eye
blinks casually, and then they wade
gigantic waves of light and shade.
A dancing yellow spot, a pup,
attends them. Clouds are piling up; 
 
a storm piles up behind the house.
The children play at digging holes.
The ground is hard; they try to use
one of their father`s tools,
a mattock with a broken haft
the two of them can scarcely lift.
It drops and clangs. Their laughter spreads
effulgence in the thunderheads, 
 
Weak flashes of inquiry
direct as is the puppy`s bark.
But to their little, soluble,
unwarrantable ark,
apparently the rain`s reply
consists of echolalia,
and Mother`s voice, ugly as sin,
keeps calling to them to come in. 
 
Children, the threshold of the storm
has slid beneath your muddy shoes;
wet and beguiled, you stand among
the mansions you may choose
out of a bigger house than yours,
whose lawfulness endures.
It`s soggy documents retain
your rights in rooms of falling rain.
Source
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