Childhood Summers

Childhood summers,

Were long and lazy days

Linked by daisy chains,

All conducted beneath,

The sweet and pungent aroma,

The odour, of the Malt factory,

The strange tang,

That started sweet,

Malt and Rape,

Stingers and docs,

Time told by dandelion clocks

And the setting of the sun,

My older cousins inexplicably

Chanting at me

“Who won the war

In 1974?”

But what did I know of war,

Or history,

Or chronology,

I was born,

In 73,

And suspect that they,

Were no wiser than me,

But the war was waged,

At the summer sun’s raging heat,

As it held back the darkness of night,

One hand pushing on the memory of dawn,

One hand holding back the prospect of dusk,

The corners and borders of constraints,

Kept out of sight,

He held those borders apart,

And we fitted everything we could ,

Into that grateful gap,

Time held at bay,

Like bullheads in buckets,

The descent of the hours,

Twirling,

Slowed like the helicopter spiraling,

Of sycamore seeds

Sick for more seconds,

Than we’d dare or bother to count,

 

Jasper keeps watch round the bins,

For straying sweet succulent skin,

For fingertips running in Lolly Juice,

Cider, or Lemonade,

Or spilt strawberry split,

To keep our distance,

We’d flick the sticks,

And my cousin would run screaming,

At the wasp’s peaked interest,

And quickened erratic movements,

We’d run with her,

We’d run,

And we’d play,

All day, and all summer long,

And Father time would eventually clasp

The grass blade between his hands

Stretched out between thumb’s heel and tip,

 

 

And the screech of some unearthly creature,

Cut through,

Ripped through the peace of the day,

Dragging our senses back,

The haze evaporating,

The sun’s spell pierced,

Pierced and broken,

Awoken from the enchantment,

The creature's cry ripped through the air,

The summoning of some hunters horn,

To the things of adulthood,

And burgeoning sexuality,

Crushing responsibility,

And the sea of night rushes in

To fill the grateful gap,

Like it was no more than a rock-pool,

No more rosehip itches,

No more grass guns

The deadly nightshade fights fade,

The goose grass came unstuck,

The acid edge of the honeysuck,

Still tingles on the teeth,

But the chlorophyll rug pulled out from beneath,

The barefoot of my youth,

Dried white dog shit,

And brutal truth

Look up,

The gap is gone,

The screech of time is called

And without resistance,

Or warning,

The summer's done.