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Inside we see a cluster of grubby youth sat in a mushroom space below a tree Shading sinuous pipes that fold them in coils of creeping, aching want.
They walked there.
Flatting a way through someone’s field, who cares!
The seeds fly free unzipped from the sticky arrows of barley That strike our bare legs and the brown stung skin of Alison.
She’s bold enough to walk and talk with us of nothing but to be First, funniest, biggest, bravest, boyest of the lot.
She is our centre; we satellite her like the sun, our Apollo 11. She burns us with her hot scent and wet neck.
We are friends.
One girl three boys, drowning in young. John loves her, I don’t.
Russell loves John, I don’t.
My role is Robin Hood.
Stealthy with willow-whip stick I can cut through The thorn bush tunnel that gates around our camp. My men and the maid follow.
The sprung briars slash at our dust-dry eyes.
She is proceeded, protected by little John and the loan of his glasses. Chivalry arms our quest into the full bowl of the wood.
No paths, no people, no dogs on leads allowed here. It’s too dense with the dead of the winter.
Still cold and moss sick, no light except us can get in.
Inside we see a cluster of grubby youth sat in a mushroom space below a tree Shading sinuous pipes that fold them in coils of creeping, aching want.
March 12, 2015