The football pitch – a boy, a dream …
Sometimes in the quiet of the deep deep dark there’s a brightness. And sometimes in stillness I hear the roar of the crowd.
The storm has long gone; above, the sky has turned to sharp bright crystal. The sky is a mirror. Below lies the football field, now still – but carried off in memories. There are no players. There is no crowd.
Around the edge of the field stand graceful, loyal, stately trees – as witnesses; the branches clap their hands at the cut-and-thrust, the moves, the goals. Now they reflect – in silence.
There’s a distant cry dying on the breeze.
A small boy walks alongside the trees. Alone, he walks onto the pitch. Then he turns: he looks at the goal. He looks at the goal in wonderment.