Pooh Sticks - an attempt at a poem

Pooh Sticks

The equidistant pines are
more conjured than those
of the second growth.
Rows for running down
and proof of endlessness
while tennis shoes, red that year
or black, not quite touching
the needle sponge.

And the hill. What grass
would be if we let it
and always wet. Tumbles taken
here and here and back
in the woods. Abrasions
often showing under the hems
or as bridges over tan lines
will be gone by September

Then where the horse bridge was
but isn't now but still where
where a girl, haircut crooked,
crooked teeth, father
with a forest beard and the son
who will not describe himself
dropped sticks into the river
and watched them come out on the other side.