During the Big Freeze of ’63

the older lads made a den of snow

on the North Worcestershire golf course.

We were trespassing, but as the golf course

was in Warwickshire it was clear

they’d started it first. Carpeted

with linoleum, lit by torch and candles,

a magical land of gleaming white where

the big boys smoked for months on end

and we disciples imbibed cans of pop,

marshmallows and new swear-words.

 

Later in the year were bonfires, hollowed

in the centre, entrance allowed only

to those who knew the password.

We became blood-brothers, cutting thumbs

and mingling the sticky red fluid.

Sometimes there were girls in abandoned

air-raid shelters, the 20 year accretion

of piss and semen. Grown older we assembled

for Saturday night lock-ins at The Dingle,

our own special corner, pints of brown and mild,

Players No. 6: the sense of something melting.