Nested deep through khaki lapels
blood ran like his legs as a boy.
Wounds opened like gosling mouths
yet the Mother-less sky brought - nothing
only December mouth clouds, wisping feinter,
as the bracken ebb struggling through men.
Silent as telegrams from low letterboxes.
He ran through eye lashes as a boy again.
That boy, who carved a wooden gun
his fingers planed a splinter blooding his thumb.
Ma ran to him with a 'told you so' line
and a dettol rag she lovingly dabbed on him.
This was after everything his first and final memory.