A poem about growing up and the presence of memory, set in Fife, Scotland.
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.