Gaping gates rhythmically punctuate the spiky high hedges,

opening portals into a life of bales and machines

all lying idle, waiting for work.

Flitting skylarks pour their songs from somewhere above

to meet the rising petroleum aroma of hot tarmac,

the sticky whiff of cows sheltering in a shed

from the sun that reddens my boyhood neck and my arms.

I’m squirming on a too hard plastic saddle,

gulping orange squash from my twin bottle cage

then sprinting triumphant over the pelican crossing.

I’m alone on this summertime Sussex street

but behind my cheap sunglasses

even the cannibal can’t catch me.