Torn blue jeans paired with faded bobbled jumpers,
Always creased.
Stories of motorbike trips,
And all the dangers you survived.
But the motorbike is long gone.
Instead toy cars and Lego have taken its place.
All existence of your past life is replaced,
By family portraits.
Tending to your tropical fish,
And sometimes getting tearful,
When the neons bash their bloated flesh against the glass.
As though you knew they are trapped,
And resented the plastic treasure chest that mocked their native seabed.
Yet I cannot quite understand,
Why you drove to the copse that day.
Why you’d park your car,
Under an ageing sycamore tree,
Whose rings confess its age.
Why you’d climb that tree,
Like a mischievous child on an endless summers day.
Then unravel.
Until your feet dangled,
Above the bonnet.
Suspended.
