Sun lays warm arm across shoulders, 

lazily grins -  

'Know what, Joy? It's a good day  

for a game 

of backyard cricket.'

Couldn't agree more.

The light is soft-treacly, 

the kind that pools, lingering, tender  

touch of old, old friend  

whose fingertips channel  

warm-wax-honey  

that slips healing into skin.  

Mmmmm.

'Long time since you played?' 

Long time? Oh, yes. Been... 

busy. Been... 

well... you know.  

He does,  

turns bright face to face mine,  

rays wrinkle eye, motes freckle nose,  

he nods, thoughtful - 

no pressure.

No pressure, ever.

I begin bowling to sheep - 

their eager legs skittle-pin in all directions. 

Greedy little beggers. 

Hmmm, left arm needs work. 

Twice now have thumping-stumped water gum 

made apple splatter. Doesn't matter.

Doesn't matter.

On dusk, rabbits  

will nervous-whiskery-risk  

venturing to feast on bird leavings - 

drizzled fruit confetti  

and shrivelled, browning skins - 

for the parrots winkle out sweet, white flesh, 

empty apple till skin discretely  

parachutes to ground.  

Leaves wizened core still firmly stemmed.

I bowl. 

Tsk tsk  

        Shake head 

                            when apple  

                released  

too early  

travels a wonky-donk trajectory, 

laugh hearty when apple scatters 

the madly milling mob 

whose muzzles push each other rudely, 

bossy-hoovering  

for Joyfalls.

I take a break to flex fingers. I would rub 

apple next to crotch 

but doubt the efficacy of that.

Stil, surprising

that right arm does remember  

quite well, 

though accuracy lacking -  

was always better at fielding. Never mind,  

this year's yield so prolific 

and the sheep are hardly starving.  

In fact, they're losing interest.

Whaddoyasay, old friend. The sheep are being pernickety. 

Time for a cold drink?

Sun brushes fringe from forehead, 

scratches sweat-beady chin, 

breaks into beaming agreement - 

'Any time's  

                good for smoko,  

Joy-Belle.'

Too right.         Sure is.