Here’s my paint chip poem:

Indian Maize is the color of the sand in the afternoon just after 1 o’clock

I remember the sand being swooshed in my empty fish’n’chips box as we sprint to start our game of beach rugby

And how it felt to have my arm being scratched by the wet sand so Ollie could get the ball

I can still hear William shouthing at me to pass to him

I miss the feeling of winning my first Rubgy game

Indian Maize is the color of the sand in the afternoon just after 1 o’clock