My lanky son sprints down the field,
blond mane streaming behind,
but when the ball comes to him
he gets rid of it quickly.
I know that feeling.
The field overlooks wild ocean,
the wind salt-charged and blustery.
Now a downpour drenches the striped boys
scattering through melting hail.
I walk to the cliff,
a rush of blue air and emptiness
above flecked waves,
follow the escarpment down
and swim in the sea
among brown boys.
My son joins me after the game.
In late afternoon sun
we cavort like dolphins
in the spiced, foamy delight
of the buffeting ocean.
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