Boy and Stick
In the old black-and-white photo he’s still
up that tree in the park, a shape among branches,
a kind of negative space, detectable only
by mathematics and his pull on other objects.
In shorts. Moustache of milk. Scabbed knees.
Coins in his pocket nicked from his mum’s purse.
A harlequin in too-big hand-me-downs
with his cousin’s name still sewn on.
In some other story he is a chick in a nest
of spider webs, spit, pulped grass
but for him: long rain falling over fields,
roofs, terraced houses, hollowed out cars.
That breeze sifts his growing. He looks out
at the world as it tries to find a shape
for him. Already he is two inches taller,
the tree a lifetime higher.
He knows he will have to jump soon
and I want to catch him, feel the thud
in my bones as he lands – but he’s off
brandishing that stick against all-comers
his feet running in time to my pulse.
Keep up! he calls Keep up!
Jon Miller was shortlisted for the Wigtown Poetry prize 2021, awarded joint First in the Neil Gunn Poetry competition and was one of the winners of the International Book and Pamphlet Competition 2022. His pamphlet Past Tense Future Imperfect will be published in the New Year.