Distance

Distance

 

So, after tea, summer’s chill descends,

there’s him and me and time to burn

and in our joy, old man and boy:

look, he’s only touching ten after all,

tear off down the park to kick football.

Listen, you’d hear our elated footfall

there, he’s up and running down the path,

brushes skittering dandelion clocks,

whipping his hand off nettles in shock,

then holds up witness with hangdog laugh,

at least an hour before bedtime, bath,

so let’s not waste it, Grandad,

the dusk is falling across Cornish hills.

I’m dribbling behind him, just about

keeping up with keepie-uppies,

bold spin doctoring my aching soles

trapping the ball as he shoots for goal,

saving some of them, but most go in,

he's judging our distance well.

And as shadows kiss tree tops, I glance,

feel three girls’ gaze, sitting just askance

and flopped idly across the see-saw,

in flaming orange silhouette by chance

of the sun, watching them watching him,

voices not loud, but loud enough,

speak sugar and lover and witches and stuff.

He feels it; the next shot misses by a mile;

picks the ball up with embarrassed smile,

then withdraws in our shared silence.

As we head home, he’s roughing his chin,

tosses ball at me with a distant grin.