Thursday, 17 October 2013



Come Laz, come sit up,
have a chat these last minutes 
before the sand demands a re-turn.
Remember that day we played 
down the shadowed sideway of your house?
You were six and I five; your quietly shaking hands
lifted my blue dress up to my waist 
then dropped small stones 
onto my yellow panties as you sang, 
‘When Johnny comes Marching Home.’

Come Laz, just for a time,
sit up and talk some more
about the summers by the ocean;
remember the pier at Ocean Grove
you were fifteen and we dove together, 
your hand slipped, touched my breast, 
we kissed that evening as we sat 
on the grass between your father’s tent
and mine, the stars shone above and your brother
threw water over us.

Please Laz, stand up for me.

I want to hear your voice, I remember
the way you screamed and laughed 
all those summers ago; when I got lost in Spooky Forest
you were the one who found me, your voice
called out my name, I was able to follow it 
out of the maze and there you stood 
smiling in the dusk, my father
stood behind you with a torch and a worried look.

I know our lives have separated since then
but ancient nights and days still have their place
and even though our adult minds pretend importance
those memories are as dear to me now
as when they first happened.

Please Laz, life has been cruel to me;
two children lost to drugs
and a third in prison,
but the memories of you have held me
through some of those dark evenings.

Please Laz, my beauty is long gone
and my skin, once smooth,
now wrinkles like the ocean;you are always in my background,
a hope, a possibility - the way to combat age
is with memory and yearning. 

Laz, I am lost;
I want to hear your voice
calling me out again.

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