Creative Writing, Venue

Way back when

I stand
among
the
branches.

If I close my eyes there’s only green;
only the tang of pine and the calculated creaking
of wood as the boy I know lifts himself higher.
We are giants.

But then, all too abruptly, I hear sirens and car exhausts
and mid-noughties hits from a neighbour’s window.
They go from muffled and distant to
Here & Now.

Tree sap sticks to my palm during the descent,
filling in
the lines.

(The conifer overlooks an estate now.
I don’t feel nearly as big.)

30/10/2016

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rachelinnes