Brother

I rest and recall childhood
a land of mists,
misremembered hills of moss
and lost voices.

The comrades there,
pushed together to train
to survive the seas of a hard journey
towards shrouded monoliths.

With jingle bells we trot together
bemused at the younger and older ones.
Equal gifts are unwrapped
for our fun.

I turn, and find myself alone
among the stone.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.