What prehistoric beast are you pretending to be?
Sat there in your perfect isolation amongst the bull rush
and sodden earth.
You, the North Star or Polaris;
always present, pinhole light that
inspired generations - anchored
without weight, mysteriously
Who would have guessed that a small tree
could be so vicious. All day you had kicked
the new football back and forth against
the gable of the red brick terrace and
Holding hands, we balance and hop
in silence through the long grass so as
not to wake the farm dogs.
The metal field gate resists my push