To the Boy

To the Boy

Edwin Probert:
Six foot three, child in the head,
Shoes, size fourteen, smile,
Gum rich.
Teeth, standing stones,
Henge to sweet tea and chocolate.

"You from London?" he asks.

Seven years old,
Troubled in his shadow,
I offer him a nod,
Stare down at white socks,
Virgin, shop-creased at the heel,
Feet sandaled for the beach.

Edwin's hands rise, branch out,
Knuckle boles pink as ham.
"Been to the palace to see the Queen?
I will before long, my Da says."

"One day you'll be big like me," he promises.
"Getting mints for Evan in the barber's shop”
A penny earned for going."

As, wide-hipped, he moves,
Waves goodbye,
Enchanted, mind-caged,
Skull old man smooth under his cap,
Schoolboy ears bracketing
An oxen neck.

I am dreaming the sea,
Mum and dad below,
The cliff climb,
Rock steps cut to my triumph,
Standing tallest in the world,
Higher than uncertainty,
Fear of tomorrow, of distance.
The horizon pearl, indefinite,
Curve of the earth a trick,
A lie you pretend to believe.