Flying firebrands, caught by practised hands;
I watch the skill he wields - he understands
where the spin will end, when it’s safe to catch.
He shapes the patterns in the air, born from
simply petrol rags lit with stricken match.
I can’t imitate, just appreciate;
My own balls lie broken, far too delicate
to have been juggled - I can’t catch them all.
In my unpractised hands they lie, the ones
I’ve not yet thrown for fear they’d also fall.