Childhood

Where does the soft, backlit focus of childhood flee to, disappear to
When the crackly skin of serious adulthood 
Spits and fires maturity for consolation fey. 
The amber tinge of early magic
Itself a glamour 
Blurs recall and sifts our memories 
With scarce a nod to day-to-day. 
This choice, a feint of solitude,
Chatters in my skull like brooding magpies in a blue gum nest,
Each hungry chick of doubt 
Another ticking time spent wrong.