unknown by blood or 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 from willow. 
and the worker men, 
hands swollen by the hammer— 
quenched by bottomless jar. 

chub-cheek boy understood, 
out there somewhere, a lighthouse. 
no more impulse, no more light
bike peddles shaped the calves, 
rode chaos towards a wedding scramble 
thrown coins. a church bell rings, 
the screaming children 
tartan sporran buckles   
white dress holy exit. 
from a place of worship, 
each they then depart.