Tarballs.

Stretching back to when time’s pace
was schoolday slow,
I can still just touch
those hot, dusty hours
of boyhood wisdom.
Crawling along the kerb
with knee-scrapes and shoe scuffs,
looking for tar bubbles to burst - those
black volcanos with aqueous lava,
bordering the plains of the dried-up gutter.
Sun softened road edge
all ready to harvest, and roll
into heavy balls -
Coveted catapult shot,
round and accurate,
that spread like a dumdum on impact,
in those tarwarm summers' days.