About a Boy

Down the back of the settee
I found a scrap of paper;
his email address, name,
and mobile number
in the florid swirl of his hand;
must have been the note
he gave to me that evening
we met – seems aeons ago.

Looking out the window;
recalling how we made it a first
in the run-down old shed
he called ‘The Summerhouse’,
and how he went red
from then on, whenever
he saw the folk next door.

The willow tree screeches
on the pane bringing me back
to reality, as clouds build
on the horizon – float on by
like froth on a pint of Guinness...

thinking about how he used
to drink it, and how used
he must be to not being here
anymore, and how, in the end
he broke...burning, blazing,
bludgeoning, like a firestorm
through the forests of everything.