That dusty dilly-dally over Back Lane, Barn Lane and past McGreevy's blackened house, sighing in the creaking sunlight.
Your queenie allowed you three goes to my one. You wanted four; afraid to lose. We gave way once or twice to timid traffic; blunt, black motors, steered by earnest men, scanning the liquid road to nowhere.
The weight of homework and your Dad's temper lent your game a foolhardiness for which you weren't suited. You cried when I asked why your Mum didn't work any more. You knew so much - not enough. Tears came and neither of us understood.
I owned your queenie by the time we reached the pump but was told to give it back. Whatever ailed your Mum meant you weren't allowed to lose.
I kicked the flaking whitewash on the backyard wall, and grew a little older.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem