Dropping By the Old Oval

Yellowing years long have dashed and sprinted round and round and round our town's old oval, it is now abandoned, gone under to grass, a site forlorn, forsaken, eerie even for the bravest local; some say on some drizzle-darkened nights, what used to be the race track seems to visibly tremble with high-pitched cheers and raucous jubilations for races closely fought, for fortunes so fleeting, so fickle; screams surging from a non-existent crowd echo distant, yet distinct in the seeing ear of the mind of one just dropping by who has been absent for so long from a neighborhood left far behind.