Saturday, 27 December 2014

Stones

Studs press turf

A call,
an arrival

In possession,
fleet of foot
and mind.

All nerve,
like a squirrel
with a nut;
the ball,
held high,
clutched
jealously to chest.

All glance,
flashing
in distribution,
on a slant of foot.
The pass’s gesture
one thing
with the thought,

the departure.

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