Lonely Outpost
Lonely Outpost


The woods the back alleys and jitties
The cut-throughs and tracks or gravel pit lane
The smell of a school
Rough and mud of the field out back where everyone went
Running about with wild intermingled games

Ending then when the men left marching
And the boys we were
We knew as they joined
Leaving together in lines
Stretching away from us
So few returning
Thin lines of letters
Each wait interminable

The sounds of the wind across the fields
Home that clean fresh idea that brings it back


Looking up to see the shading
Of the light
green in the trees
And wild stories told on the run

And now
Knowing it and remembering each moment
Wanting what it meant
Making it mean something
In the passing of a year you might miss
In the blink of the strike
With the flash ringing in the same woods
Where quiet wanders looking for space
Where paths cross contours
In straight lines through the roots
Of trees that are not for hiding in anymore.

NaPoWriMo Rewrite. His Story, taken back 100 years ago today.

7 thoughts on “History.

  1. the smell of a school, sawdust permeated with something like linseed oil, wooden floors, sweeping, the brick building build 1922 (year before my mother’s birth) now “long” gong.


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