The Stunt Tree, the Clay pit and the Cave Club. A Childhood Confounded Letter.

Intemperate and intolerant. Inside, in step with the slow Summer sleep. The pit of clay mined building bricks, of weak whistle breeding and large pike fish poked out. Hillocks of grass skin, ditches of rain run off and clay play. Plagues of croaking mating froggy went a’courting. Six spot Burnett Moths in flashing purple and red. Flashes of lightening Summer fishing line, less covered rafts, floating, catching on clay mud banks and sinking. Itself made from rail weight Summer sleepers, tarmac black and melting hot. Involved and not interested. In there, I suppose, is a reed heron hopping to where she showed me hers. Pretend to be a burglar, she said, and hit me sneakingly soft so as not to hurt. So I do. Boringly among the hills of clay so no adult could see in. In there is a bucket full of apple eyed puppies to drown. Adventure ourselves to get them out. Stuck in the rain run off tunnel pipe and crying we were dying. Under the Clay pit.

Stunts in the stunt tree that grew arms just for us and lost all its grown green for feet around, just for us. But retained its prideful glory, simply for us. With its rope and dead earth.

I will be a Nazi, bad, see me fall dead. Down dead when you shoot. No one can drop down dead like me. That is not a gun, there, in the tree, is a gun where we fall and laugh, hang and fall and leg smooth girl bits with tree meeting soft leg. Insensitive and uninvolved then in the time before everything. That is just soft. That is not allowed. What? You show me yours, da de da. Aw, just another five minutes it is sadly school after Summer dark. Insolent and unhappy.

Take me down to the hedgerow tunnelled clubhouse cave. With a careful garden cane hidden. To bully the bullies after bully beating bully enough. Enough! The seventh time. The last beating. Leave him alone. He is careful. He is frightened. Ha! he dark stain wet himself. He still beat you bully. So cry all your way home, little snot nosed arse snigger piggy. To tell your sister who everyone knows is your Mother. That is why.

Innocent and intriguing. This is the start of running and the end of jumping from the stunt tree. This is the filling of the pit small universe. This is the start of thinking and the end of growing. This is the way it used to be. Before it and everything.

© 2009 Ken Simm.

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child, childhood, confounded, letter, memoir and memory