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
imbetween or arrow through heart.
Then fatty Wayne overreached
with a joyride. Took
collectors Chevvy dumped, set it alight.
Bugger had it too close!
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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