Cricket(for Chris)
Not yet thirteen, nor five feet tall,he plays his first C-grade matchagainst older men and the better boys.
Everyone bowled fast, he tells me,I kept getting an edge for quick singles.Sun, wind, joy, have burnished his skin.
A mini-warrior, he broke his ebay bat,its snapped handle a review highlight.Later, he bowled four tight overs.
He went close to a run-out,his speculative shy missing the stumpsby a narrow gap between index fingers.
He describes the free lunch, party piesproving the grown-up, privileged milieuhe has glimpsed, grasped, memorised.
Was it better than playing juniors? I asklike a teacher who knows the answer.Hell, yes! he says, graduation accomplished.
I recall my boyhood sports debut with men,the surging pride in my uniform,its material heavier then, like me now.
Sated, he goes to bed, perchance to dreamof opening the batting, or bowling with pace,pulling Australia out of its current slump.
Archival
Although most are probably long deadthey seem happy, even excited.Perhaps they will toss triumphant hats.The wind might favour their teameven steal tossed hats, but not hopefacts that no doubt mattered whenthe photographer turned their way.Passionate voices shook the aireach time their team thrust forwardtheir breath, hearts, faster. Rapture.
Beyond goals, beyond team uniformsthe future is still composing in the darkits skies too indistinct to be seenwaiting as this moment waited untilits face appears as the presentleaving after-images like exploded stars.
Post-match, they review tactics, sweatingon crowded trams, or punctual trainspast our streets, these atoms & molecules.The Great War bled dry, their blind hopetheir dream, is that the only damage aheadis reserved for jousts with local rivals.
Damage
I wake late after dream-mad sleepin this creaking house I know so welloutside, soaked paths, grass glittering.I realise morning rain's soft drum rollhad granted respite from daily trutha reminder of our long-ago sleep-insnaïve security in the future's potential.
Rainwater had spilled through rust holesin the sagging guttering, run into the shedbelow our canoe, for years strung upnow a nest for possums under rafters.My thoughts flicker to that camping tripa swift current trapping us against a logour survival, with the help of friends.
Where ibis roost I discover a fallen limba canoe