Look left, look right, run like bloody hell (for Fred)

Look left, look right, run like bloody hell. We look left,
we look right, we are kites in his hands, his arms
are vast wings that flap and billow against us, feet
that are distant, vast plates that hold the earth together, fingers
rooted into ours, giving us life and laughter as we reel out.

Back home, in the lean-to with the off red painted flag floor, he
tells tales of dough monsters, mighty creatures born of flour and sweat.
You’ve got to keep your hands smooth, you got keep your knuckles hard.
Look left, look right, knead like bloody hell. Mash it and coax it, roll it
under the flat of your hand, release and pull it back into your warmth.

Taste the soil beneath you, son. Taste it and relish it, pinch out every
moment and hold it up to the sun and say, this is real, this is life, this is
the run through stalled traffic, the giggle of small children, the feel of the
stars in your eyes. Let them burn you, let wrinkles appear, wear them
with pride and tell everyone you earned each one laughing.