Being a Boy

Drawing a hand along the rain-washed hedge,
I smell my childhood.
The scent and sting of brambles, nettles and fern transport me.

Crushed stalks bleeding bitter-green life.
Stained knees part of the game
As a small boy hunts his foe,
Unaware of home-time consequences.

Creeping amongst dusty cornstalks,
The thick air catching in my throat.
Heated by a sun that consumes a cloudless sky.
An imaginary savannah,
Filled with predators and prey.

Earth in my hair,
Not dirt.

Minutes and hours pass,
But without a watch to confine them,
Time does not exist.
The game only ends when darkness and a growling stomach impose themselves.