Though forty years may muddle and confuse
I still recall that day, far from our grey estate
roaming mottled lanes through hushing woods
which screened the ringing sun and wrung it on
the ground like salt upon a cabbage patch.
We'd ventured far that summer’s day, crept
down nettley paths past caravans of charcoal
burners whom we fantasized were gypsy
witches, scrumped our lunch in orchards, scaled
rubbish tips for pram-wheels to build carts.
The man stood astride in a roadside glade,
his fisted hands on his hips, as naked as the hidden
sky was blue, and those who saw this spectre
ran to tell the others down the lane,
but when we came again the man had gone.
I still recall that day, far from our grey estate
roaming mottled lanes through hushing woods
which screened the ringing sun and wrung it on
the ground like salt upon a cabbage patch.
We'd ventured far that summer’s day, crept
down nettley paths past caravans of charcoal
burners whom we fantasized were gypsy
witches, scrumped our lunch in orchards, scaled
rubbish tips for pram-wheels to build carts.
The man stood astride in a roadside glade,
his fisted hands on his hips, as naked as the hidden
sky was blue, and those who saw this spectre
ran to tell the others down the lane,
but when we came again the man had gone.
(c) 2012 Poetrivia
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