(somewhere near Kendal, the mid-1960’s)

 

 

Mud-lagged and shoeless, I am cold, afraid,

three-quarters blind, half asleep.

 

I cannot run. You have thrown away

my glasses. Rain blinds me, too.

 

Your long legs carry you further, faster and

you drag me like a carcass in your wake

 

In your head you are both hunter and hunted,

Geronimo, heading for the hills.

 

A man full-grown, but I see through you. One of

us is not a proper grown-up

 

Here is a window, lit yellow in the gloom.

Rain-sleet slices me raw.

 

I think I might die here,

never go home.

 

                                         Please stop now,

                                                     I sob into the wind.

 

Hours have passed since the blade

of your hunting knife

 

hacked away

at my hair.