rebellious imaginations

SEAFARING

Two leagues south from the knotted garden gate

a verdant ocean of occasionally cut grass

ebbed gently, to the main road – Stroud Road.

Upon such a swell one felt small, exposed, but never

 

adrift. We played football: full-blooded battles with no quarter given.

We played cricket: its mysteries revealed by an English castaway.

We played golf: Dad’s ‘borrowed’ iron, heaved like a cutlass,

with hands blistered and siblings pressganged as caddies.

 

On windy days, kites flapped and rippled like brightly coloured flags

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