-Ryan Conway
In the dwindle of autumn evening
the gaunt goal-posts wait,
like tusks for an animal
that will not return.
Even under stars' pinpointing
the distance of the city lights
reaches the pitch through fog,
eyes considering sleep.
Maybe it's our steam that mists the night.
We are twenty-odd exothermics
and it geysers from our lungs,
rises from our heads at standstills.
Which are rare.
Fallen leaves mustn't settle.
Some grass remains between
the million craters our running studs
leave in the mud.
The ball shines just enough
to be seen at the last moment;
this after school game
will send us home smelling of earth.
Sentineled by goal-posts
we move in our jerseys
like shadows brightly coloured in.
