Fourteen Leagues

I whet your golden axe,
pack my sack with fading memories
and limp towards the tree-line
of the forest of fourteen leagues,
to find the tallest pine
and fell it to the ground
then light the fire to purge
the last of the haunting memories …

the early years were small and there is no light no more and then warm milk but no cookies and then winter and cold and snow and cold and warm milk and then I walk but cannot talk the words they shout and shout and then sleep and falling and in darkness falling and then green grass and soft grass and naked feet on grass and gravel and those yellow flowers in the gravel and on the knees gravelling and rubbing the flower in the face of another face much older and the smell of pipe tobacco and fishing in early morn and smoking in elderberry to make supper by a mother’s mother round as the football we kicked but smelling of old cooking and not lederhosen as we are not from there or anywhere that can be found in a map of the Texaco brand in the door pocket of a tiny green box of British make and the longer red one that didn’t give me birth but a hospital and colour photos of a small one and a camera and an angry face of a little man clearly lacking from those early days any desire to be captured on film …

and as I toss the final photo
into the fire of my own desire
the crackling takes me back
to those early years
unknown then
the events to unfold
to bring a life through life
towards a death
both unknown in form and fact
in strength and sickness
in love and hate
now sprouting …

I whetted your golden axe,
packed my sack,
came limping back
through the forest of dreams
without memories or bliss
but wiser — nonetheless