That hawthorn now
There was a tree
Was it planted or did it just grow
On the top of a hill
Next to a graveyard
We used the whole wild area
Godless kids scared of gods
Pagan in a sense
Outside of the low brick wall
On top of the church brew
In summer the grass there grew so tall
Our ratting dog got lost
It was funny to see him leaping about
But he was not fun
Toby caught and shook voles
It was not in the least
The fault of newly released mink
It was him
Toby was responsible
He was a killer
Boy he could run
And swim
Jumping from that hill into the brook
There were waving purple weed flowers
We never knew the name of
Pillowy seeds in the air
The smell of the slow mill water
Rank like rotten privet
And yet sometimes the silver flinch of a fish
The yellow dash of some kind of songbird
Everything always fleeting
Shallowly unknown
Except for the tree with one long limb
Our special branch ideal for spying from
On our day long games of hide and seeking something now

ANTHONY C MURPHY is from Lancashire, England. He has performed and worked on the spoken word scene in the UK and NYC. His first novel, SHIFTLESS, is out now. He lives in Yonkers.