A patchwork poem for National Poetry Day 2011
I had such high hopes for you.
We were so strong on paper,
both on fire. The last time
we'd played was in the old house,
six stolen weeks, secure in your den,
me listening to your stories,
then climbing the ladder
to play a different game.
What games shall we play today,
foul play and slapstick?
Kiss chase, spin the bottle,
not fun like they used to be.
You leap and stretch in High Definition
like a striker taunting home fans.
If you look at the ball closely
you'll see it has bloodstains.
to remember the rules.
I am small again, a little girl,
alone and chartless,
separated by legal distance
stretching into infinity,
bewildered on the brink of tears,
fishing for wishes in the long loch-dream.
We get to the heart of the thing -
war games, the unbearable logic
of how it's taking part that really counts,
plenty of time to rest up later.
The game becomes lacklustre,
scrappy, no great shakes
when the moment comes,
same old same old.
We are playing for pride.
This poem was created by taking a line from contributions by the following writers :-
Rafael de Swarte
Wendy Jane Muzlanova
Poem collated by