Age makes a difference

he says, remembering when their posse went too far with an old tree.

Posse were a gang called after U. S. Rappers who took it from cowboy films.

Posse found it down Lovers Lane, overarching the canal: too full to flow ancient bedsteads, glossy wheel trims.

Over a fag scratched their names

in its bark, shinned and slung a rope round a branch overreaching the water

competitions seeing who dare swing furthest without getting wet.

Then fatty had a go. Expected happened, limb snapped

 

told his mother he’d slipped in a puddle when we’d a drought a week.

Later, some of them, like him and wife courting down canal, would boast these cracks. Even then looked sorry for itself. All wrinkly and scabby wounds.

 Still, some of them, sap bleeding allover, hacked their names

 ‘LUV’

imbetween or arrow through heart.
 
Then fatty Wayne overreached

with a joyride. Took
collectors Chevvy dumped, set it alight.

 Bugger had it too close!

 angry now.

His childhood tree went up.

Lately, him and wife, take steady strolls by water find younger couples carving Lovers hearts in wood remains.

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