October children

We played our football among the pines

my cousins and I at Christmas time before

everything got lost

before the ending of my childhood

to a knowing hate that would consume me all

till my father’s death and even now

it howls my wolf on the hill.

 

I am my father’s son born on that same day and month.

 

We are October children yet as different as Mercury’s sun

and those visits though not Fernhill were filled

with an innocence now

gone.

 

 

*from my book ‘The ghost to his green

a tribute to Dylan Thomas…2014

copyright 2014 Kenneth Trimble

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