Glass spheres, all colours, wrapped
within our dirty-nailed fingers,
50p a bag if mum is feeling generous.
The chill on hand is biting frost, Arctic,
smooth as an infant’s tongue suckling on
its mother’s milky breast.
We crouch, striking, poised,
lured by potential in the weathered, grey,
metal drainscapes, bumpy and foot-scuffed.
With dirt on our curled fists, we send
the marbles hurtling into holes,
sliding into victory, these treasured balls
taking hits from bravado and
not wanting the shame of being the loser,
nursing the loose cannon.
© 2021 Sarah Drury