Grave of the Worms
At first I don’t recall
The exact shape of the trees
Or the wicked zest painting your eyes.
My memory is dazed and glowing
The light shooing out what once was my truth.
We were harmless in the midday embers.
The trees like Egyptian Gods watching over us,
Rays of Ra cutting through the fingers of the trees.
The sun blew a kiss down from the sky
And framed us perfectly into that serene moment.
The garden was our jungle, our infinite play-pen
Imaginations mingling, the garden exploded and
Whatever we touched became something new.
The soil quicksand, Yew a bean stalk,
We were giants. We were giants.
Rabid grins and fingernails caked with mud
We clawed as the worms crawled
We dug as the slaters darted.
There was innocence upon your deaths.
As the same sun which warmed our backs
Left you hard, crusted and blackened on the terracotta ground.
I think this memory sticks the most.
The worms scorched and melted into the stone.
Lined up so orderly it was as if
We had planned your deaths to an exact precision.
We hadn’t, but we never learned.
This poem eulogises those worms
For my mind is clear out of respect.
But as soon as I close my eyes
The sun, again, strokes my back
And I blister lovingly.