Youth.

Load up the wayback machine

Come and behold a scene

Marvellous creatures with wings at their spines

Wet-eyed and soft-boned things

Scratch open their throats to sing

Clouds like jellyfish smeared on the sky

Wayward son, where is the hurricane

Buried? Grabbing the growling mane

Of a forest fire, your fingers defrost

A bird, an egg, an angel perhaps

More than a child, a child perhaps

More than a ghost