Martin

Giggling at 6, huddled under duvets, playing monkeys
At 7, playing the 'N' game in the toilet - your idea, because the adults
Were too stupid to figure out that 'N' stood for NAKED.
We stood and hugged, whispered and belly laughed.

I am letting our secrets out, like doves.

Scooting at 5, in 8s round the car park on Stroud Green Road
Faster than the speed of light, you superhero.

At 8, I had my ears pierced at El Greco partly to impress you. I nagged and
My mum took me straight to Ferme Park Road, heart thudding.
But you were busy playing with a tomboy from Manchester.

At 13, we attempted a snog and you showed me dope
You'd hidden in your room at your mum's. I thought the police would come.
Don't be silly, you said. All barriers, nothing to you.

The People's Festival at Ally Pally. We wandered at 7,
No money, no mums near, half the size of all the pissed 70s giants.
Hours later we remembered our parents, went on a hunt.
Crossing the road in front of the Palace you made it over first.
A coach screeched to a diagonal halt instead of pulping me.
We saw my mum running up the hill, shouting, for my nearly dying.
Your face smarted and blushed as she hit mine.
I did a "yikes" face at you sideways. My loyal compadre.

At 9, a sleepover, up the splintered white stripe
To your room at the top of the stairs. Newly decorated in blue.
Later your dad stomped up and dragged my camp bed away
To the other side of your room. We had been talking too much
And forgotten how to sleep.

At 21 on the corner of Kensington Gardens, Brighton
I saw you with piercings, friends, dogs. You didn't see
The strange girl staring, paralysed, at your beautiful face.
I whispered "Martin".
We were on parallel roads. I was too shy to say hello.

At 11, at mine, you washed the dishes in the morning.
My mum called "Martin?"
Without a beat skipped you said
"That's my name and washing dishes is my game."

The industrial bin we climbed in.
The rusty wires we clambered over, landing in nettles.
The racing on mud and gravel, Starsky and Hutch.
Squeezing through holes in fences at the end of alleys.

Never getting caught.

In 97, your son stood by your grave and I watched our dads bury you.
You were only meant to look through that last fence.

You're in the perpetual alleyway now

The eternal treehouse

The sun is always high

Hendrix plays

You are adventure, silver birches, old walls, night.
You are the sun high in the sky and dock leaves on stings.
You are "don't worry it'll be fine" to my "No, Martin."

A smile like light.

Quiet eyes.