ströddes

been climbing trees, i've skinned my knees
my hands are black, the sun is going down
she scruffs my hair in the kitchen steam
she's listening to the dream i weaved today

crosswords through the bathroom door,
while someone sings the theme tune to the news
and my sister buzzes through the room,
leaving perfume in the air
and that's what's triggered this

a high–back chair, he sits and stares,
a thousand yards and whistles marching band
kneeling by and speaking up,
he reaches out and i take a massive hand

disjointed tales that flit between
short trousers and a full dress uniform,
and he talks of people ten years gone
like i've known them all my life,
like scattered black and whites

i come back here from time to time,
i shelter here somedays