Old Spike

 

His father grew cacti in polystyrene cups

His mother drew pictures no-one understood

He grew up prickly more quickly than us

I guess that’s why we called him

Old Spike

 

Their place was a pig-sty but no-one much cared

Some say there was a sister but no-one knew where

When pressed on the subject he’d stiffen and stare

But I never thought to press

Old Spike

 

Now I’m drinking cold tea from a polystyrene cup

As summer roles over I can picture them both

Spike and his sister in Aberystwyth or Ayr

A smile growing wild on Old Spike

A child growing wild in me