Catching the hard, red cricket ball
I rub it on my trousers, spin it in my hand
and reaching backwards throw it at her.

Hard and accurate the ball
divested of a reason rotates through the air,
catching the sun upon its body, gathering
impetus until the eye is mesmerized.

It happened far too quickly:
the untiring accuracy of my throw
that never would have hit a wicket
folded against her with a gentle noise.

She winced, her hand upon her *****, tried to smile
and started crying like a girl;
and picking up the ball I threw it furiously down the field
and found myself in tears.