Diamond Skin

The field was dust, the sun low and red,

a ball thumped hard, words left unsaid

by the kids, their shouts thin and far.

I watched them through the rusted bar

of the chain-link, a woven wire mesh.

Each diamond held a sliver fresh

of the pale blue sky, or dying grass.

A plastic bag, caught fast, alas,

flapped like a broken, flimsy wing.

The ball kept hitting, a dull, flat ring

against the metal, again, again.

Separated, through sun and then rain,

I stood there, just an eye, unseen,

behind this patterned, rigid screen.