Here the slopes are burdened by decaying slates of abandoned names
and ruinous hearths,
naked in the blue-white glare of the plastic pitch
and trembling in the brittle air of night.
Stagnant in its steel,
a storm holds an everlasting breath,
sighing through sleepy bristles of pine trees
and stiff, dry dirt in sheep's wool,
oblivious of the electric poles plagued by tears of rot.
But on the other side of time,
trapped in a second of 2007,
in a rainbow of childhood, the grass is greener.
Fluffy blankets of giggles cover the slopes with a promise of protection,
and streams of excited bubbles blossom through the open door of home,
as light as love as they glisten mischievously in the sun.
Colours of energy and bustle pour over the boundaries of the frame
like smoke from a candle on a birthday cake,
like a rainbow receding into the depths of a murky morning,
like a masterpiece drowning under the skin of an Etch-a-Sketch,
before facing the stagnancy and the steel and the slopes
as a pixelated ghost of memory.