David Coldwell

Rookie (Huddersfield)

Clocks

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
and prints a leaf green pattern on my coat
whilst I shoulder it wide into the land. You’re riding high,
holding tightly until thin pink wellingtons skid
off and your cry wakes the dogs.

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