I remember it well,
That old pavilion,
Decayed and crumbling,
White splinters on young skin.
Whilst men outside,
Played sport,
My personal race,
Was one of endurance.
It still haunts me,
The wooden feeling,
Of wooden buildings,
The stroke of bat on ball.
Although now long gone,
Torn out of existence,
The memory remains,
Inside my tired mind.
A distant itch,
That never leaves,
And cannot be coaxed away,
Because what remains,
A hole,
Cannot be landscaped,
And you cannot bury,
Something that is not there.
