‌It and I are sat outside Number Nine with two friends

Baked dry and summer-kissed Kent-brown girls and a boy on

a wall of brick orange cream and brown bread. Our feet hang like fish on chicken limbs.

Plump-skinned thin-boned

flop on the green flesh nasturtium flowers where we played

with butterfly babies and each other.

A poster paint by number view Too bright to be true.

Then as seeds and grubs we grow big and drop Probing the soil

our white finger roots and bottle brush creepers reach up and touch and tug our feet down

to ground

where in the chalk and flint and stone stiff stands the wall and I

still drip the years till now.

April 9, 2016