but you age now.
we reach, grope. frantic, we snatch.
but your doors, they creak. crack.
grind ajar, then malfunction, and
crash, leaving us stranded
in inferno of tropical heat waves
as we burn a whitewashed beat
amidst your patchwork track
and tattered, spattered ship o’war.
and soon, we must move on.
the runners take their final lap,
while fading cheers sound
on the far side of space,
where soccer stragglers finish off
chasing tired ball of hopes
between tree wall and rock wall,
and the air is punctuated
by a muted crack of ball on bat,
sending us scared, packing
from darkening battle-scarred track and field,
to comfort of your lighted canteen
where friendly chatter heals
the wounded, ageing heart.
and yet, as the last wayward rugby ball
flies over your greying patch of green
it scorches the heavens
with a fiery splendour,
carrying with it
our hopes
dreams
aspirations
for the road that
lies ahead.