If you were the first onto the playground <br />and the sweeping wind had cornered the leaves, <br />sent empty crisp bags circling like greyhounds <br />then there was only one game there could be. <br /> <br />We would untoggle our parkas and grab <br />the bottom corners in each fist then lift <br />them up our backs, over our heads, a slab <br />of a sail to catch a westerly drift. <br /> <br />Then tear-arse into the gale’s heart. Head-on! <br />Even the fastest kids across the yard <br />lost all force and felt their speed’s erosion. <br />Then blown down flat decked like a house of cards. <br /> <br />For those who conquered that grey concrete hill <br />lay the kite ride down. A tail winded thrill. <br /> <br /> <br />www.matthewcoombe.blogspot.com<br /><br />Matthew Coombe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tear-arseing/
