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




*from my book ‘The ghost to his green

a tribute to Dylan Thomas…2014

copyright 2014 Kenneth Trimble

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