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.