Late childhood remembrances of August
summer jocund rollicks under forest foliage
bilberry smeared mouths, palms; grimaces
boisterous laughter and dashing under trees
or to green dens, protection from showers.

Grazed knees, thighs and grazed elbows
but real Indians can sure stand any pain
and first physical explorations, so exciting
diving into a sphere of shaman non-reality
although well aware of what is what, hey!

Smoking black tobacco cigarettes
gulping down cheap supermarket brandy
chanting, bawling idiotic gang-songs
a friend of mine puking brownish sauce
me belching loudly, manly, proudly.

Lord!

We were real blokes.

Real blokes.