Shots

Upon the sky-lit hilltop path,
where the gamekeeper’s round lodge stood,
by snowdrop, under pine,
I found a tiny sphere of clay.
Poacher’s strange tool – a catapult?
A slingshot from the ploughed-out fort?
No, as a boy leapt puddles to
school’s wasted, dazzled day,

he dropped one marble. I recalled
Yvette and me, in their top room.
Scorched by the gas-fire’s dust-fed roar
in one unending game,
we chased each ball which rolled and fled –
lost father – green – odd boyfriend – red –
watched each world clash, in half-lit glass,
smash flame to flame.