A half-hearted NaPoWriMo #2

Bad Light

Every morning, he would pause before the window
and chant his prayers before a square of light.
His father loved him for it. He would breathe
in, breathe out; eyes shut, leaning forward
as if to dip his head in light. His father timed
his morning crossword by these muted sounds
like penitent pigeons cooing at the sun.

I told him it was all no good,
that the sun’s just a ball of fire,
like the moon’s a ball of ice.
They don’t listen to prayers.

Every evening, he would join us for a game
with his bat, his ball, his stumps. We loved him for it.
He would don his gloves, he would squat
behind stumps. He would breathe openmouthed
to fetch the ball from gutters. He would watch
the space between his toes while we fought
for batting rights until the light turned bad.

He would return home, cheated
by the setting sun which never gave
him his prayers’ due, his shadow
a question fading in its worsening light.

(NOTE: This is a rewrite of an older, much much older, poem titled “Bad Light”. Given the World Cup win and all that, I find I cannot concentrate on writing anything else. It is a shoddy rewrite, but it is much better than the original draft.)