Poetry

Seeing a motorbike accident on the way back from football

As sweat dried under our shin pads
and he lay slide-tackled across the tarmac,
being tired and alive was a kind of relief—

the traffic stopped in both directions,
drivers observing blue lights and bright jackets,
the suburb held at a junction, and

us the only things moving,
skins aware of the sunlight,
walking back to our houses,
rhythmically filling our lungs.

Joe Caldwell