That soft sphere clasped in her blind ‘basket’
Those four eyes handling.
The adrenalin shaking out its fur.
She goes again.
Through that matrix of fraught failure,
Dry-lipped and unexpressing
This little girl is nearly smiling.
Airborne – she and the tiny earth together
Palmed out towards the radar
Of her own blurred universe.
She grabs; it falls.
By now the room is watching.
Again – a hopeful exhortation
From Dan and Jack and Rhodri bach –
They know this is not rocket science,
They know that it’s not luck
That coaxes or coordinates such things.
But I’m the coach. Not pre-disposed I hope
To seek for epic confirmations, lightning bolts.
A gentle word.
With barely a flicker, she raises hands.
We lend our focus and the ball… lands.