in these streets
they still play end to end
and three goals in
the old mine siren sounds
at midday, every day,
as though the shift will come up
one coaled nationality
the sea filled shafts on overflow
tomorrow’s cars on nature strips
turbine shadows calling time
sand dunes bleat for patience
turned over bellies sun up
fine ground as bone and promise
the shoreline recess no compromise
the thud of the footy landed
a yell of the mark taken
a Macedonian’s freak goal
I ask the Malaysian guy
for the correct pronunciation
of Number Four
he laughs with me and says, Number Four
putting down the Singapore noodles
the Sherrin’s in my hands to pass
the Sudanese kid seems eight foot tall
probably twelve years old
I do my famous stab drop kick pass
he jabs it through the pencil pines
one kid says not fair
well, a high five’s only got one translation
(even though I have to jump)
James Walton Poetry 