Heber sits down on the dusty driveway.
He unties the double knot, loosens his right boot and takes it off.
His woollen sock has a hole at the toe
And another, larger one, at the heel.
Heber tugs at the string on the other boot.
It is stuck, fast. With mighty will, he breaks the string, and removes the second boot.
Heber takes the broken string in his old fingers
And mends it with a knot his father taught him.
Then, he takes the other boot and ties it to its shabby brother
He pulls himself up to stand upon the dusty driveway, in his woollen socks, boots in hand
And looks up.
Heber looks up at the great tree branches
Still leafless, after a keen winter.
He looks up at the pale grey sky edged by impending weather
Heber learned to throw, as a lad, long long ago, at school
As he raises his arm, a memory of winning crosses his lips and he smiles.
So Heber has his arm raised, then swings it far back, and up again,
The weight of his two old boots lending momentum
Up, the boots fly, high into the tree.
Heber looks till his neck begins to ache.
He looks up at his boots, swinging from the great tree,
And he looks at all the other boots, strings tied and paired, swinging in the tree.
Heber has a thought, chuckles, and walks
Noting the sharpness of pebbles in woollen socks, on the dusty driveway.