The Boys Who Nearly Killed Me

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What more do you want than
these white waves?
The March Sun blanched middle
of the sea.
The sand snakeskined in patterns
by the rip currents.
Not far from where you’d find us
starting fires and drinking special brew,
right close to where you’d’ve found us
snoozing in the dunes.
If I keep walking with my eyes closed,
will it be over soon?

I’m not far from the
park where I got beaten up,
or the corner we took too fast
on that Honda 90cc.
I’m not too far
from the dart that only just missed me,
the bottle that nearly hit me.
On cloudy days like these,
when the cliffs are kissed with mist,
I remember with affection,
the boys who nearly killed me.

What more do you want
than a midge in the sun?
Than the branches above;
a filigree of wishbones
to crack, and whisper at;
then say, sorry, you’ve forgotten
what you wanted in the first place.
Not so far from the copper hope you gave
the well in Florence. When money
still had currency, and home
was still a place.

I’m not far from the bad decisions
that led that car to meet the banks.
I’m not too far from the axe he had,
the quad bike we crashed,
or the hay bails like boulders we
precariously stacked.
On cosy days like these,
when the sun comes through the window,
and there’s the buzz of honey bees;
I remember with affection,
the whistle of my maker
and the boys who nearly killed me.

 

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