Just for the game: A poem 

I feel old as a mountain 

being mined, and lined 

with grey trucks stealing its luck 

And they are making paydirt 

of my earth 

I feel sharp blades 

in my soul’s everglades 

where they hunt alligators  

packing them up in freighters 

My compassion is war-torn 

like pastures that are shorn 

of corn, for an urban dawn 

But these are shallow pains 

when, after it rains, 

the archer with a rainbow 

hurls her coloured arrows 

through my windows 

And they reignite the flame 

of my enthusiasm for the game