Catkin Moths

In the scrubland where the trees are less,
where the hazels don’t compete
for the thickest wedge of rare light,
beside a trunk we place your dolls house.
Wind pulls at catkins on a lichened branch,
muscled with pollen, not primed to wither
nor tough it out alone. But down they flutter,
strange moths that splat against pink roof
as I glue plastic troops on the balcony.
Your name is etched on the plywood wall.
We’ve learnt whatever’s childlike, colourful,
brings us shame, makes us quarry.
One soldier sneezes at the pollen,
blowing isolated catkin to the ground,
where adolescent wood mice have made
hollow shells of last year’s nuts. Lying prone,
we brandish our guns. You’ll regret this,
you warn me, as if I’m a caterpillar
feeding on a hazel tree leaf, and you are
geared up for stage teen of metamorphosis.
We fire a judgement of pellets. Limbs
snap off from the toy soldiers. Plywood
crashes back down to earth. Pollen’s sneezed
in riposte. Our childhood is sent flying.