Nomads

Nomads

We were nomads

Walking the cobbles

Kicking stones

Against dustbins

Waiting for the clang.

Hiding in alleyways

Wishing for rain

To wash away the stain

Of his dad’s death

At the top of the stairs.

What was he thinking

A bit extreme

I heard someone say,

What did that mean?

He was no coward

Allan cried

Big fat tears

Holy rollers

He said something

Had caught in his eye.

Lying took guts

When the truth was obvious.

We ran and ran

Hoping to find somewhere

It hadn’t happened yet.

We never found it

But the sun was warm

On our backs

Hunting in packs

For the eggs in old

Tom Foley’s chicken run.

Climbing trees

Until the branches were too weak

To bear our weight.

Falling for fun.

Anything to pretend

We were unchanged.

Allan was never the same

Older than his years

Sadder than a child

Needed to be

So my mother said.

I wonder what happens

When I am dead

She flicked my ear

And said not to let her hear

Such ungodly talk

It was bad luck.

I thought nothing could be worse

Than what happened to Allan’s dad

In the loft,

Until my son died

And the floor dropped

Out of the world.

I kept falling

I still can’t find my feet

Lord knows if Allan ever did.