lime cordial summers

the telly murmured three day tests

in the only room with a fan

we would end up there, collapsed

in cut-off jeans

stupefied

with the white lethargy of school holidays

we lay looselimbed and aching with the wait

Colombo's sunshine looked like chrome

the players moved sluggish

in the tropical heat

roused themselves again

and again to run

sweat

trickled down our adolescent cleavage

as we watched, sucking icecubes

the fan's face a mechanical, slow motion negation

the ball clocked gently

so much molten time

that rhythmic, momentary taste

of moving air

we wanted the burning vinyl of benchseats

boys who smelled of petrol

a cool change, quickening pulses

wanted a roar. wickets flying, limbs

taut with anticipation

total fire ban, day after day

the hot concrete

stretched like a glaring empty pitch to the Hill's Hoist

those storm clouds massed

waiting for release

the supporters' slow clap

building, poised:

thunder

a drum roll

elsewhere