Monday, 13 June 2011

A football In The Garden

There's a football in the garden,
Perched on green, frosted posts, 
The sound of childrean, swallowed
By their everlasting ghosts,

The aimless goals we followed;
Open stadiums galore, 
All melting with the mornings
When the sun begins to pour
Commanders, we both thought
Of uncommandable seas, 
Lost in youth's determined waves
And age's inconsistencies,

Now we see the board as Knaves, 
Accepting loss without a pardon, 
That we've left some things behind, 
Like a football in the garden.

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