(memories from a lost youth)
Shoe leather for brake pads
we scuffed to a stop.
"Their" cried Derek "It's their"
Tumbling down hill scratching
and ripping through
bramble thicket we gave
chase.
Into the newly plowed field
splurging treacle like, through
mud that tried to **** off your
feet.
We stopped in shock
as a gust of wind lifted the
bright red balloon, with its
unread message waving to at us;
as the wind carried it on to
where?
Derek screamed words you can't
say to an adult when your only
ten.
Defeated we splurged back to our bikes.
