pulled slag to the sky
And head-gear, spinning and smooth,
lifted shift ends out
and black streams seeped
down tar-works brew
where we threw Bull-rush bombs
with stinking roots
We meet as aged dog walkers
Withered as winter Woodbine.
Both fine, as usual, yet feeling the cold
distance we’d put between
here and the coppice,
and the year we’d entwined
with summer's willowy fingers
stroking our backs.
Shared the first secretions
of our trembling youth,
shuddered into each other's
ant bitten thighs.
Minstrel
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