stride hand in giant-hand through
skinny grasses of our woodland.
It’s not our woodland,
but we pretend it is;
you are the hero and I am your sidekick.
We stalk imprinted mud,
the deer in the meadow, and once
mistakenly, an adder.
With nets I’d catch butterflies
so you could say who they were,
until you gave me a book.
The memories of us swigging tea
on the green-smelling lawn
were beginning to yellow,
as blonde as my long hair,
that you liked to stroke
whilst Heart-Beat flickered over us.
I’ve cut off my hair.
Because you are not a hero,
so I am no longer your sidekick…