As I stand at the window he runs by

As I stand at the window he runs by,
An armful of fresh mown grass, his dimples
Flash in the evening sun.
In my arms a baby squirms.
David is digging a new bed
Where the rhubarb and gooseberry grow.
As I watch, still separate in my window, he runs and leaps
And grass flies.
In my arms a baby squirms
She smiles in my eyes when I look down,
Her mouth full of my hair.
The wheelbarrow has become a mountain of grass and dirt and probably weeds
He scales it and spreads his body over the bank
With his hands he reaches out to touch the air.
I hear, as though from a distant land, voices shouting delight
The mountain of earth lumbers by the hedges and the peas
When it passes my window they pause, and somehow through the glass they find me in my distant land
And they wave — matching boyish grins.
In my arms a baby squeals
And we wave in return.