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