Ball Poem by james watkin

Ball



What to the core
Playtime's stamp bore.
My little rolling life's joy
Rolled on too sore!

Each roadside drain
Echoes the pain.
Every roof slab, with slanting
Rain-swept again.

Down childhood hours
Who for it scours
Retrieves in heart, what shaped them
For bounced vigours.

Thursday, November 29, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: childhood
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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