Distanced by Ross Thompson, written in Bangor during 2020 Lockdown.
1.
As a child, you were told to keep away
from tree boles rubbed smooth by scratching cattle,
to not build dams in fieldside sheughs or play
in stagnant water or stage mock battles
near borders where acerbic nettles crept
through remnants of ancient kettles and jars:
a silent war of blades and bayonets
dipped in histamine, each eager to mar
gentle flesh on exposed arms, thighs and shins.
If not treated with dock leaves, welts would rise
up like braille, spelling out patterns of stings
and poisoned trails that brought tears to your eyes
but you toughed it out, and on the way back
avoided marauding dogs and strange men
and the house on the corner with the cracked
windows rumoured to be a dealers’ den.
2.
Late this evening, you followed the same route,
avoiding paths traced by fellow strollers,
trying to outrun the wolf in pursuit,
trying not to glance over your shoulder.