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