The Drive Home

 

Into the dark

of night,

heading

home,

 

from

a dwelling,

of God’s own.

 

Gates down

with DING, DING, and

BT sounding,

over

kids in the back,

a gentle

idle-engine,

humming.

 

SHOOSH,

quiet,

 

iridescent light, flashing scarlet,

the night pauses,

for a bit.

 

It’s over

It’s over.

Turn it off.

 

The ball

somewhere,

non-Richmond end

22 tickings, chances

remote.

 

Keep, going

keep going,

a pass,

a chip

a little one over the top

 

what,

 

a good bounce,

a long boot

to where ….

 

NO,

Don’t turn it off

Slap.

 

Limbs retract,

as a shadow looms, somewhere

as breathless rumbling, pummels

the tracks

clack, clack

in time,

Broady bound.

 

LLOYD, LLOYDY,

a mark

with tickings, somewhere

to go

 

it’s Pentecost,

and confirmation

a holy spirit, now

bestowing gifts,

just perhaps.

 

The outside din

abates,

and a siren, shrill

within,

Oh, for a kick

after….

 

Turn it up,

Turn it up,

 

Be quiet,

Be quiet,

 

Lloyd for goal

45 out

at an angle, odd

it goes,

somewhere

 

through the middle.

 

GEE WHIZ.

 

A rising fever,

with a maddened crowd

and BT’s bellows, and

dashboard shudders,

and thumpings,

within

 

as panes, wound down

to remove the stifled heat

from the air,

and the air from the stifled heat;

 

and the dark from the dark, darkness

of a season

falling,

away.

Melodies flung, da de da

together,

with shimmers

of cheer

and glory,

 

and Allelulia

Spreading a ripple, wide

across the sharpened shadows of northern abodes

and all around.

On this,

now bright and clear night.

– Kate Birrell 2016

First published by the Footy Almanac