Old Flames

I remember, sneaking to the horses shed
with Anne Duncan, Duncan Archibald
and some other friends, I would have been
about Twelve then. Maybe Eleven.

I've brought a cigar, from my Uncle's 
Den. One is enough. We Small 
Children, big eyes wide, puff -
faces scrunch as hot rough air scuffs,
scrapes our insides - and one by one
cough for clear breath.

This is a leaf.

So we unroll the magic leaf,
flakes falling among the straw.
Wondering how they get it so smooth,
that colour, this shape and texture,
not thinking of the physics,
pure prehistoric science of it all,
at all, and just walk off.


Cor, 2000