Still harvesting the apples in our back garden reminded me of this….
Scrumping
Climbing autumn fences
Barbed and berried
Looking out for the farmer
And the cool snout
Of his shotgun. Spitting pellets of old metal that catch a goodun
In your slow arse
Creep over to the trees
The orchard a neat system of lines
Regimental one by one
We pick as many as we can carry, thick-skinned apples
Hammocked in our jumpers
Inside out bellies
Running the mile back to the estate,
Past the infant school, the offie, the corner shop
The gavvers in their car,
Dad in the pub
Over the train tracks, electric braces
Rigid current all the way to France
You live in the Garden of England
They tell us
Dickens the Romans Thomas a Becket William the Conquerer Anne Boleyn Churchill Darwin
All that history, them books
We keep running.
Heidi James 