The Boy Who Might Be Me

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Nostalgia can be a right pain in the bum.

Submitted: November 10, 2016

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Submitted: November 10, 2016

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The Boy Who Might Be Me

 

There's a boy on the path that might be me.

He's focused and blessed and looking content,

With purposeful strides and a stare that is meant

For a cadet whose yomp will end at his sea.

That's the boy on the path that is probably me.

 

There's a boy through the field that might be me.

Dogs scuffle and play and nose at his palm,

While hunched men prod earth of the asparagus farm,

His glance is green but his vision is free.

That's the boy through the field that is probably me.

 

There's a boy in the pinewoods that might be me.

He runs so well on this carpeted ground,

Falling cones and his breath are the only sound

Except for the reds who scratch in the trees.

That's the boy in the pinewoods that is probably me.

 

There's a boy in the dunes that might be me.

No fear of the cliffs he leaps and lands

And runs and tumbles he's saved by his sands

And the needles of marram that prickle his feet.

That's the boy in the dunes that is probably me.

 

There's a man on the beach that might be me.

Toes sink and crunch as he approaches the shallows,

He wistfully stares, he sighs and then wallows

In the wind he screams with his back to the sea

The boy is a man and the man is me.

 

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