In the summer of nineteen eighty five I sewed sunlight through my fingers As my friends threaded conkers. I found a den of dead jews On a grave of Marlboro Burning like hatred. Three Skinheads saw me in their den Cornered me by my road less travelled Slit throat eyed and green gloved hit me like Mussolini on rope two zips birthed my lifelong scar. Childhood drowned in the kaolin I held on to roots like my Father Watching sticklebacks pass me As if I was algae They left laughing with my bike. I ran like my wounds Down a well travelled road Never told a soul That I lost mine When three skinheads found me. That place is still there With the boy in the brook Sewing sunlight through fingers To cover his darkness. I went there last week The taste of them remained But the child had left the brook To holidays with my family And all that was bleeding Was sunset on the brook.