Still harvesting the apples in our back garden reminded me of this….


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.

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