unknown by blood instinct
dead tired reflections
at the bottle.
he wore boy scars as signposts
he aged with slit-eye poker tells.
and what of those rumours—
the woodland tree house, not alone.
truth swirls up ancient wynds—
hide and seek between nights shadow.
memories as kite,
silence ate time & daisy chains.
-
a too weak grip—dog tail ripples,
coastal wind shaped lapping waves
as moths, fed on woollen jumpers
local mothers knit & wove,
wicker baskets made of willow.
and the worker men,
hands swollen by the hammer—
quenched by bottomless jar.
-
chub-cheek boy,
out there, somewhere, as lighthouse.
no more impulse, no less light
bike peddles shaped calves gripped,
rode chaos towards a wedding scramble
thrown coins. a church bell rung.
screaming children
tartan sporran buckles
white dress holy exit—
from a place of worship,
they must depart.