We used to play ball beneath boughs of bountiful brittle birch tree.
We’d wander wild in wooded worlds which knew no impossibility.
Sometimes he would be bandit and I’d track trail him for hours.
Till the high noon shoot out, where he’d fall felled atop flowers.
Other days I would play villain, wailing barbarous battle boy’s cry.
As a noble knight he’d hack attack and felled I’d flail, fall and die.
They found him bound, tied terrified, to the boughs of brittle birch tree.
Left lost late at night, no hope in sight, did he try to call out for me?
Struck so hard, had he hollered, confused had he called out my name?
So many times he’d been murdered but this time much more than a game.
Now no one plays ball beneath the boughs of bountiful brittle birch tree.
“DO NOT CROSS” tape, murmur “Murder or rape?”, strangers strain to see.
In uniform they crowd around him, tied to tree body becomes sad shrine.
Gathering tattered toys as evidence, Exhibit B bagged was once all mine.
How long till his father finds him, till wails will part the dead sea?
They stretch silk sheet over his face, replace horror with anonymity.
Will they piece all the clues together, ever explain how he finally fell?
There’s not many who know the true story and me, well, I’ll never tell.