Wednesday, April 22, 2009


In the apple tree of my childhood
You sat across from me
All tangled blonde hair
And bloody knees

I remember wrapping up long grass in leaves and smoking it
To imitate our mothers who were absent until meal times

We had an underground fort
And an igloo
Leeches in the lake and
Salt in the shaker

The child you were
Has become the man you are:
An addict. Cynical and fearful. Alone
With neither apple trees nor friends to sit in them

Douglas. Dougie. Doug.

At what point between the garden and the house did I lose you?

- London, April 2009

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