T-----,
My guitar chattered in my hand
at the elm and oak wall of spring
as you beat drums with a covert heart,
strutting tattoos that died in ****.
But you didn't show on Saturday,
or the one after either,
leaving us drumless in the pool hall,
having to call Jimmy quick -
at sixteen we were quick to forgive.
You went into the Army
but left under a strange cloud
after an incident in the mountains.
After that at the odd house party
I watched the goodness leave you,
a lake sweltered away to motes.
After you fought Rory on the planks
of night you were unwelcome,
you vanished into mummy's threads,
hillish murmurs and silhouettes,
just an occasional twenty-year thought
I have when winter's stretch succumbs
to green oak glitters, vivid loaves of elm.
Even so, I send you my best.
-Evan