She lives in the house on the end of the street the one with the paved driveway and green awning frame taking its place amongst the other houses of the same ilk the one with the smashed windows covered with newspaper and rusty keyhole inset into the door like a moth on a calico curtain surrounded by fruit trees bushy and ripening with pomegranates lemons and oranges, overhanging cement paths with fluoro lines marking places to repair surrounded by rubbish and debris plastic containers and old shoes from neighbours, tossed away with disregard taking their place in the pile worlds apart but the same heart.
I’m sure the grass was greener on that day and the window, iridescent in the sunlight until the next ball. The delivery, was one and the same leaving the hand, a deep inflection onto the bat with force and vigour. An outside edge, flying above the guard the kitchen window took the brunt it could not stand the tension, the sudden onslaught. It broke. Stunned onlookers stood mesmerized the smashed glass formed crystals seasoning the food with sharp objects that now needed to be dislodged. The fielders gathered from around the yard heads hanging as low as the udders of the cows that grazed nearby. One flick of the wrist is all it took, and they knew. They couldn’t play here again. The grass faded, desiccating in the hot summer sun and the iridescence replaced with destruction in need of repair and convalescence.
Michelle Juers is an Adelaide IT professional who loves to spend time away from the computer screen, both writing poetry and hiking. More of her poetry can be found at www.cinnamontheory.com.