Pikathingy’s winning! My son’s hunched shoulders unclench a smile as he looks up from his game to high-five his brother. Then back down again.   Pikawotsit’s an electric creature. This much I’ve gleaned, I think. I’ve asked – but Pikadespeak’s faster than light-speed.   Least, it is to a Pikaignoramus. They fight, right? – Yeah, […]

He’d kick his football over the six-foot fence that bordered our gardens. I’d find that ball alongside a blushing rose or a shocked marigold.   I’d leave it for a few days then shoot that ball, netball-style, loop it over the wooden defence and through the hoop in my head; then salute the waving flowers […]

It was lead, that was probably pewter, a coffer for cigarettes: tipped, untipped, but where my No Smoking parents treasured bridge cards, painted with Botticelli maidens: Venus, another, somehow untouched, even by their friends: no wild shuffling please.   For our whist there were everyday red and blue packs that spilled from their boxes in […]

She’s here again, white-haired and seventy if a day, adroitly elbowing hordes of little boys away and shooting from the hip. She’s razor sharp, she’s slick, makes use of every martial art to get first pick of used Play Station games. Those who dare to block her path are soon vibrating from her dual shock. […]

requires years of practice. My boy, old enough now to develop   a consistent run up, ball half polished half scuffed, fingers each side   of the seam. I could learn about rhythm, balance – his arms coiled, eyes   on the wicket, full drive through then ease, that gentle angling away.   For now, […]

 …haunted by the ghosts of children’s voices,         calm as the greening-over of a battlefield.   The soccer starlings have all flown,         leaving the ball miraculously suspended in the air   midfield. Disdaining either goal, it claims the horizon for its touchline         and   in a sudden blaze of freedom,         dropkicks itself over the edge of […]