in the dry grass next to The Bull

once every year the ground would shake

and scream “faster”

while our fingers grew sticky from the company we kept

here to win fish as golden as we wished

the beer

 

what of the gypsies

what of their king

what of the grave thrice danced around

finished with a pin?

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the rain drums his fingers impatiently
along the length of a blue dusting lung busting puckered roof
and fingers the gaps where once there was glass
wire veined, designed to resist
a boot, a fist a flick of the wristy bone
trebuchet yet now carpeting this concrete nest
of surly youth in a crystal expression of boys
when they are bored
nowhere better then than this Park Drive smo...

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each night I sleep

entwined in the comfortable branches

of a mossy oak

by day I play

among the lissom saplings

and wonder

how far I might still bend

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“eight Shippo’s a night youth

with a pack of No.6

loyal to the local economy

proud of where I lived,

never owned a Chopper though,

much to my chagrin,

every other Saturday

Trent End hooligan

serial movie matinees

at the ABC

a penny got the first one in

who let the others in for free

meet me at the Lions

don’t you know your left from right

...

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