Childhood in Poland.
Carefree and warm.
We flounder in the water like beavers
and although leeches pinch us in the calves
we build the dam.
The river is dreaming.
Reflecting as in a mirror
the familiar faces
of friends and loved ones,
they forgot me,
their children have grown up
and gone into the unknown.
The river is dreaming.
And I’m still standing on the footbridge.
I’m afraid to jump.
Cross the dam of time.
A time ago, when I would run, the grass would barely bend,
The laws of physics and myself were not considered friends.
I would fly along at such a pace my shadow would surrender,
Before a letter was even sent I could return to sender.
I could jump from any crazy height and land without a mark,
I could tumble down most any hill, make a fire from a spark.
My hands would very rarely rest upon my handlebars,
The road was but a playground for weaving through the cars.
From our secret lair we could watch the world and never once be seen.
If dirt was steel, I was a magnet with not an inch left clean.
Ghost stories made the short walk home last a thousand years,
A multitude of hidden things to fertilise my fears.
I made a fairly decent dent into the sugar mountain,
And quenched my never-ending thirst with a sticky fizzy fountain.
Trees were climbed and blood was spilled and bees were caught in jars,
And our hearts came tumbling from our mouths as we lay and watched the stars.
Remember a Savannah in past grass stains fabric-embedded
with a thunderhead rumbling from such knowledge homegrown.
Early on roots do not realize how deep they will plunge.
From this jungle gym, these tree tops, children of Peter Pan dangle…
Rover, Red Rover, come put on your play clothes.
The rain is our ally.
Do you remember bike trips to the Amazon through mud puddle ruts?
Twigs poking pebbles were gateways.
Bang. Bang. Count to ten.
Now toys in the attic hide what we seek,
a mystical passage of letters, costumes found buried in boxes.
The Sabbath grows shorter. A work whistle blows.
Waning, these days dream of picking blueberries in August.
From black cellars, wax-lidded jam jars gleam with beginnings.
To return there is to struggle with wisdom’s Braille, a face-reader,
our fingers, blind but for the insights
of a dying planet still managing
to send out a last shoot.
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Riding my two wheeler
Helmets not invented
Standing up peddling
I’m shifting my weight
Side to side left to right
Hey Wait for me guys
Leaning into sharp turns
I love that wind blowing
Press those pedals back
Skid into a sudden stop
And burn some rubber