sports kit - generic hair
i turn seven times in twenty minutes
to check if you're still there
we watch the play
you from outside
me from the back row
are you missing out on training?
you're alone and you must be cold
plastic shorts plastic shirt
standing in an alcove
where god isn't watching
hands pressed flush against cool glass
tall window
you look so small
hiding like a kid
wouldn't you rather be annihilating yourself on the court?
cold hands - dark window - unspecific sport
unspecific boy
has anyone else noticed you?
have you noticed me looking?
forgive me for assuming, but
i hope someday you allow yourself to come inside
there's a free seat next to me

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

A sporting life—
For the bloodsport—
We enjoyed sharpening our knives and loading our guns on the languid savannah plains.

For the thrill of the hunt—
The bloodsport—
Our sweat would drip onto the carcasses,
Mixing with the open veins.

We enjoyed the ****,
Displaying the beasts' heads as we covered ourselves in their blood,
Congregating for the love of the open veins.

******* preserved the bones,
And these hunts lived long in our memories as symbols of our glory;
Symbols of the beasts' pain.

Legs pumping, muscles screaming
Eyes transfixed, seeing but not seeing,
Mind wandering sometimes dreaming
Heart thumping, loudly beating.
Body glistening, pace increasing,
No thought other than just breathing,
Inner voice gently pleading,
It's against me that you're competing.
Hardened gaze, resolve seeking
Any thought of slowing down but fleeting,
End in sight, goal achieving,
In determination solely now believing.
Then it’s done, smile cracking
Hands on thighs, tension fast releasing,
Time to rest, morning breeze fast cooling,
A sense of private purpose sweeping.
This day’s success a moment surely fleeting,
Yet little tops this burst of joyful feeling.

An art or a sport
Some whisper a ‘crazy obsession’,
And like Golf where age won't cut short
At least our pastime won't lead to depression.

A hook and a line
Much patience, sun balms,
No rush when your world is sublime
With glistening waters and a horizon of wavering palms.

They ask what we do
Long hours surveying the sea,
So little they know for amidst all that blue
Lies the quest that only we see.

That adrenalin rush
A shout or a curse, the rod twitching possessed,
Tranquility broken no semblance of hush
All steely resolve now hard pressed

Arms aching, back breaking
Reel screaming the line pulling so deep,
Fish gaining, strength failing
Maybe this task is too steep.

We win some, we lose some
The joy’s in the chase not the catch,
No matter the outcome no semblance of glum
And for this feeling there’s simply no match.

With my five iron
I drive fallen, raw figs
Across the yard