the soothing scent of mowing lawn
back strain from lifting & hauling
concrete stepping blocks
storing another direction.

wakeful night of dreams crowding
saying things I forget.
labour betrays the promise of a tired body
assisting sleep

fifteen milligrams paid in full
moisture in a drought
the rain holds off a little longer
despite various warnings

ringing something sounding unlike bells
white noise turns the colour of alarm
it's all alright
the mantra some magic
the mantra some magic

chopping rocks
it only takes that
chain gang number not behind bars
blackbirds squawk amongst seeds of grass

gathered symbols or innocent bystanders
white friends fly
proud with the span of their wings
catching the flow.

trip on a stone
the smallest pebble snagging a shoe
lace caught beneath
hesitant step.

hussle to train with luggage heaving
straining the zip, can never hold back
a time to be quiet &
rearrange words

the lessons we hear tuning into
the night
wheels roll back home
some more washing up

We chase the ghosts of youth,
with glove and bat and ball;
running down the base-paths,
hoping we don't fall.

Like honey in slow motion,
we make our way to first;
panting... out of breath,
we hope our lungs don't burst.

If we're in the outfield,
we've "lost" the legs to run;
but it's the game we treasure,
it's mostly to have fun.

We laugh at our mistakes,
strikeouts and dropped flies;
it's but play... that we seek,
not self -regretted sighs.

Long gone, the grace of youth,
we muddle through the game;
and rest upon the off days,
tired... happy... lame.