Over the Field
It'll be all right
he touches the side of his nose
with his middle finger
a conspiratorial nudge harking to some gypsy rite
(he's one quarter gypsy on his mother's side
and has the eyes of his grandmother)
and against my better judgement I let him lead me
through the wood (private, no trespassing)
and along the back of the hawthorn hedge
where last summer's brambles pluck at my jumper,
unpicking the seam where I burned the cuff n the electric fire.
The cow shed is old, unused
and mostly dry thanks to an intact roof
though the rain spits at us through glassless windows
and the lime from crumbling mortar whitens our clothes.
He builds a fire in the middle,
a circle of sandstone boulders dredged from the canal
England's Glory kissing the edges
of yesterday's Sun,
dancing through straw and crackling pine needles
birch and alder twigs send shadows dancing.
He opens a can of Tizer,
offers half a Bounty bar.
The repast of Kings as his hand brushes my leg,
his fingernails caked with dirt and ash.
My heard thumping under my anorak.
The reflection of blue lights
against the crumbling brickwork
and he's off
a rabbit catching the scent of hounds
leaving the carrot untouched
with my knickers still around my ankles
when the officer shines a torch inside.
© Rachel Green 2016
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