Sometimes it is like flying over ones childhood,
the green remembering the blue, the kite flying skies
and the way adults seldom waited for the end of what
we had to say which was about who gave birth to God
and why Eve didn’t have a belly button and what did
Hitler call his dogs and why did nobody talk about what
Jesus did when he descended into hell and did the boy
in the wheel chair run about in his dreams and did all
fallen women have something wrong with their legs?
Silence is a cold friend. Some of the invented people
remember us and there are letters still hiding in our heads.
We are the way the words made their flights, sticks and
stones of mystery, gifts as betrayals, the eyes of the adults
always winning and moments when hiding didn’t work.
Always put on a tie to lie and remember that the tree house
view is a better perspective and why did we call the clown
Bobby? I can remember meeting a soldier in the snow;
he showed me where his front door had last been seen.
David Grubb
Illustration Nick Victor