Playing Ball

If he wants it,

we’ll play coy with coloured

pictures. Fill the open space

like hungry ants. Invite the boys with 

cameras round. No phones.

If he wants it,

we’ll whisper on untapped lines

while we show them the 

school again. Our great defence.

Walls, lost in translation,

line the room like towers.

If he wants it,

we’ll crawl into the ground

and scatter; mice who know

the call of an owl

hunting too far to fly

back home.

If he wants it,

we’ll burn like forest fires

light our skin like peppered oil

just to see it spread.

© All rights reserved. Nia Griffiths 2019 .