Goosegrass
We haven’t come far
since those shool trip days
where each sock had a name
and each bag
a week’s supply of bread.
Where we’d walk in lines
on beaten tracks
and trust in myths;
we’d pick a leaf
cure a stitch.
How I’d be half a pace behind,
half run and reap the banks,
find goosegrass to throw
at your back.
How you’d always turn
in time to see the guilty barbs
still on my clothes
and in my hair.
