we numbered potholes in our country roads
“need more road than holes,
someday”
we opined
whilst ambling to the wide margins
between cane-field rows
for cricket
we came
bringing rock stumps,
coconut palms,
a soft ball
already tested, winded,
stained by wet grass
and dirt
when canes were harvested
we boarded our food and water
with extra care
as protection from dislocated rats
desperate for temporary lodges
then we filled the void
with kites
bled canes
perfumed our air
that aroma of petrichor
interwoven with
molasses candy-floss
we, joyous children, would pray
the brazen wind
wouldn’t snatch our kites
and drive them into the sea
