Forever young

We were fourteen or fifteen,

I suppose.

A whole year, it seemed, without rain.

Sally and me, 

and another.

Hard to believe I cant recall,

when it was the most important thing,

as the sun came down 

on our shoulders.

The pavement so hot it burst.

A burnt lasagne.

Sharing a cigarette, 

etching our names.

Like teenagers in America, 

if the films 

were true.

This town was nothing,

but we were movie stars. 

In the future, 

kids like us would see our names, 

mine and Sally's 

and the other ... 

Scraped from that black street, 

near the ugly, 

new church, 

down on the corner. 

By then, the tree would have grown, 

our autographs would be in the shade.

Safe from the hot summers of the future, 

hard and definite.

Set ready for the cameras.

I took a walk, 

years later, 

when we were grown.

And looked for us beneath the branches, 

but we were gone. 

Kids had sprayed their names, 

on the wall.

Different colours.

It looked nice.

Quite beautiful,

in a way.

But even there, 

in the shadows,

they were 

already 

fading.

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