“Are‑ya‑done”
Mum’s bottle clicked open
with that sharp brown whiff
that lived somewhere between
seaweed, metal, and trouble.
Knees barked from gravel,
elbows freckled with the day’s
too‑fast cornering,
and she’d dab that amber drop
that rolled like syrup
but bit like a tiny spark.
“I‑o‑dine,” she’d chant,
stretching the vowels
as if the sound itself
could clean a wound.
“Are‑ya‑done?” I’d fire back,
half‑brave, half‑whinge,
because the sting always arrived
a blink after the colour bloomed.
It painted my skin
in rusty constellations,
left blotches on shirts
that never washed out,
badges of honour
for a day well‑spent
skidding through dirt
and inventing danger.
By evening, the marks
glowed faintly on my shins,
a kind of sunset souvenir
from the rough‑and‑tumble hours
before the streetlights flicked on.
And Mum would hold the bottle up,
give it a shake like a tiny rattle,
and ask again, softer this time,
“Are‑ya‑done?”
But the day never really was.
Only paused.
Waiting for the next sprint,
the next scrape,
the next amber bloom.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 26th, 2026 05:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Katie B., Tristan Robert Lange, Cheeky Missy, Friendship
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Comments10
I remember well that bottle and the smell with the red tint. It is a flash of yesterday and its sting. What good it did was about as good as the advice they gave me. A good read my friend.
Those were the days, indeed. Even before Band-Aids were a thing. 🙏🏻🕊️
Wot no condy's crystals? All the same, you got me, as memories came flooding back.
Thanks Rik.
Them crystals were a bit to be useful and I had to source once in liquid form but yes, they were in the first aid kit as well. 🕊️🙏
A fine write, arqios. A sweet walk down the dusty red dirt road of youth with Iodine and castoroil.
ooh, castor oil! I can still smell that and feel its gluggy texture 🕊️🙏
I really enjoyed this! Great imagery and vivid memories. Well done.
Thanks, Katie B. 🙏🏻🕊️
My friend, this took me straight back. The ritual of injury and reassurance, the half-brave protest, the quiet tenderness underneath it all…it feels universal in the best way. It stirred something familiar and gentle. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks for sharing painting that picture of uncertainty blended with hope and promise🙏🏻🕊️
You're welcome, my friend!
Good write A.
Thanks O🙏🏻🕊️
Your poem brought back my childhood experiences of playing outside, getting hurt, and the ritual of applying iodine to wounds. It reflects on the physical and emotional marks left by these experiences, portraying a sense of nostalgia and the fleeting nature of childhood.
Thanks for commemorating that with the poem 🙏🏻🕊️
"as if the sound itself could clean a wound' sets a wonderful tone here, Then "inventing danger" and "a kind of sunset souvenir" add color and character. Nicely done.
Cheers, Dan. Good to see you around the site. 🙏🏻🕊️
So very true Rik, nowadays you barely see scabs on children's knees as we did in our childhood times.
Andy
I still have faded scars that could work as a picture album should we decide to turn the pages🕊️🙏🏻
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