The game begins when a swarm of men
dip, in unison
buzz, lightness rising
fills bare chests, inflates through their wings
and is pulled, with a hiss
through their fingertips.
In song, threatening
the black magic of flight,
the momentum of a ball in motion.
It’s been too long,
since the last white man left.
Or perhaps aeroplanes and cricket
arrived on the islands, already dismantled
iron frames and rules ballast
leaving only the imagination to give shape
to the persistent truth of wanting to move.