Five-years-old and school
shoe shopping, I saw a sparkling pair.

They won't last five
minutes my mother declared.

Although puzzled
and disappointed -

clearly and distinctly, I knew
my mother would not deceive me.

...snowman.

Ruddy jowls and
coal dark mouth,

its coiled, springy
conk sniffs.

Beach ball bodied with
scarf belted at the waist,

its aluminium legs rooted
in black cartoon clogs,

wobble underneath
a crab topped tall hat.

Words –
hammered like
nails into
****** pine.

Spilt resin,
knots and splits;
scar tissue
planed and jointed –

a flat-packed son.

The bus stop
was there,
but not quite there.

Something was
missing. Or had,
perhaps been added.

Buses passed,
all with the
same driver.

That was odd,
but not quite odd
enough to be troubling.

The F11 wouldn’t stop.
Yet, it stopped long ago,
a green streak fading –

a tail of memories,
the ghosts of boats –
under Bella and Bertie’s gaze.

Going back
can never
be going back –

chocolate bars shrink
and the wrappers
rustle, differently.

Pines prickle ruddy cheeks,
I tickle itchy peaks.

The osprey
plunges

an unerring
spear

with
atlatl instinct.

Talons
slice surf

a
loch picked

of
thrashing rainbows

Icarus’
folly eclipsed.

the osprey plunges
slicing surf smashing spume towers
skylarking talons