The games are two years away.
He has been chosen.
He works out every day
for the body must be toned to perfection.
He practices his skill- day in, day out
until every movement is burnt
into the cerebellum
backed up in the mysterious wiring.
His coach berates his every missed beat
His wife knows what she has taken on
but cannot always control her frustration
As summer approaches he prepares to travel
but his mind is focused.
He is ready for one chance to shine.
The concert is next year
She practices.
Every note must be perfect.
The difference between good and great
is a millisecond; a tenth of a tone;
subtleties of sound and touch
heard only as vibrations
in a listening brain.
She takes advice from teachers
She goes on a diet
She gets a better hair colour.
Every nuance will count;
for the audience and for her own confidence.
The harvest was going to be next month
But a storm is coming
So it has to be this weekend.
She races round the villages
In a desperate competition to sign up workers.
Family, neighbours, friends, friends of friends of friends.
Idle youth to hobbling geriatric.
All can bend in the scorching heat of June
to force the soil to release its captive gold.
At 5.30 they begin; 3 carts full by lunchtime;
10 by Sunday noon.
But it is not enough.
The storm breaks over the slope
and rain torrents across the broken land.
What is left is washed into a useless mush.
Months of her livelihood gone in a cloudburst.
The athlete ?
He wins the bronze.
It is disappointing, but more than Ok
He has a deal with a shoe company
And he can start practising for next time.
The musician ?
The reviews are good.
She gets a contract with a label;
tied in with 65 pages of terms and conditions.
It is enough to live on, for now.
The farmer ?
She sits in her kitchen and cries.
Cries with joy for the harvest saved
and with agony for what is lost.
All that she could do was not enough
in the face of nature.