Boy with the wooden gun

Nested deep through khaki lapels blood ran like his legs as a boy. Wounds opened like gosling mouths yet the Mother-less sky brought - nothing only December mouth clouds, wisping feinter, as the bracken ebb struggling through men. Silent as telegrams from low letterboxes. He ran through eye lashes as a boy again. That boy, who carved a wooden gun his fingers planed a splinter blooding his thumb. Ma ran to him with a 'told you so' line and a dettol rag she lovingly dabbed on him. This was after everything his first and final memory.