One acre of grass. Thistles, nettles, anonymous bugs

and just lying there- sticks and stones for bat and ball.

Yet again it is afternoon-cum-evening 

another course laid out for run and jump trials.

In time told by sky-shown colour 

amorphous clouds racing for faraway homes

momentarily absorb every possible tint.

Little feet strike the field as lightening

Earth answers with olfactory spice.

The atmosphere seems to hold us in amber

caught in one of those seasons where kites might fly.

Gathering dark waits at the edge of this world

but forever now too late to beat the curfew, 

our acre laid low by concrete towers

too rigid to look back they sternly look down.