Ruby, Woah

 

Ruby, Woah

 

 

Does the past exist in black and white?

I’ve seen the pictures - grimaces in grim sepia tones,

couples that bleed together looking alone,

dustbowl smiles that failed to cultivate

prairies of salted paper prints – three by three inch -

and possessed of thick, forbidding borders.

 

Today, we’ve a pre-season friendly,

nothing of consequence, but we arrive early -

mighty Truro to be toasted - flash-roasted

by your hubristic Exeter City who – with maximum fuss,

swaggered off the bus and lost.

 

Hard to put fingers on how. Their number 15 blazed

resplendent red trails, raised fire-streaks on green baize,

but we’ve our very own indigo Harry Kane

mighty in mid-field, steals a penalty,

lashes it home between the milk-white frame

and the onion bag bulges.

 

Post match, he’s on his phone, though –

‘Grandad, hurry, we’ve got to go,’

and he’s tackling the viridian verges,

sprinting ahead, square on square, a paintbox splurge,

hurtling crossroads, hurdling kerbs

and I’m sweating to match him under buttercup sun.

 

‘What’s the hurry, son?’

He’s tight lipped, has to get to the gym, pre-closing,

pump his upper-body, grind his traps -

points to the car-park where his mother’s waiting

to pick me, dashes inside – an iridescent flash.

 

‘Ah, that’ll be Ruby, his friend.’ she clarifies,

and I speculate, but, ‘No, she’s 18.’

But I remembered how Mary Wilson made me putty

in the upper sixth, how lucky

I felt just to scent her auburn tresses, her swishing dresses,

how I soared when she let me take her hand.

 

Even to this day, my pulse still can race, take first place,

mount podiums for dazzling medals -

I ragged him later, a little, scanned his face –

he denied it with a crimson blush that bloomed, flourished,

looked back on this match. It didn’t matter;

 

we’d queued for beer, Coke for him, heard the clatter

of expectant cheers, prism crews, mosaics all limbering up,

asked a fellah behind us – if we pose, take a shot

for remembrance - I grin gawky from over his shoulder,

looking back at him getting older –

how his past detonates forever colours.