Kicking Stones

Between the concrete walls
where everything was somehow different,
where the kicked-stone laser ping would ring
and the smell of cheap meals dangled
in the lazy summer air like balcony washing,
between the gooey gum-dots
on the tarmac trail that led to heavy doors, she lived.
Dancing sideways through the gaps in a world
that took more than it would give.

She was the first angel I ever saw
in her white nylon dress and trainers,
just as I had learned the first flush of shame,
a fool, inadequate and pale.
In my dreams I joined the dots
and we were cool.

I watched with longing as she bloomed,
suggestion by suggestion,
until they formed an idea that seemed new.
A way to escape the endless dry summers
and fumbled attempts at adulthood.
There, where the chalk marks had faded,
innocence was traded, fair and square,
and she evolved into something warm and rounded,
a comfort to those around her.
She found meaning between the concrete walls.

Now, my angel has left,
moved to the city,
and the streets we once knew
are empty,
except for stones
waiting to be kicked.