20, 30, 40 girls run out onto the hockey pitch.
Little bugs and tiny beasts crawl around in the grass
Only to be crushed by a pair of worn out runners.
"Strike 1, strike 1!" the teacher yells out,
Frightening the birds in the trees.
As the tennis ball is beat across the pitch,
The girls race to be the first to grab it.
As the grey clouds cover the blazing sun,
The last ball is thrown,
And pink fades to black,
The girls leave and rush into the schoolhouse.
The marble metal bottles that decorated the side lines
And wet coats that hung on the gate
All slowly begin to disappear.
The childish screams and party blower tweets
Bleed into a miserable silence.
The day will come quickly
When girls become women.
The green gate will rust
And the grass will go brown.
The memories housed within our little hockey pitch
Are invisible to those who never set foot behind its gate
And forgotten by those who did.
YOU ARE READING
Koi Boy
PoetryA collection of poetry I've written to document some of the experiences I've had as a young person living in Ireland.
