Uncle George camps

next door

not really

an uncle at all.

A neighbour with pop

and chips and sips

of Canadian or Blue in

sweating brown

bottles

when Mother

isn’t watching.

Bonfires at dusk

tobacco, flies

mosquitoes and

citronella. Card games

and dirty jokes

while Mother sleeps

under fly netting.

The moon rises over the water

and keeps rising

it keeps going

Up up up

while we warm wet hands

by the light of the fire

and our hands catch fire and

we burn down to the sand.

Uncle George says we’re welcome.

Welcome any old time

he says.