Fen - 11
The yew tree spilt over the iron fence,
it's roots in the growth unscrewing the black
Hammerited poles from the posts. Holding
true to our secret bond, we lay aside
our bikes, cast a second glance, and slipped
through the squeal of gate into the churchyard.
There, we knew ourselves officially out
of bounds. Our cover story was that we
were brass-rubbing, which caused us to laugh,
and make limp-wristed jokes, as we crunched
our way up the path to the shadows
of the south end nave, where we couldn't be
seen by Mrs Swiggland, who came everyday
to lay flowers for her daughter and tend her grave.
From the pen-pocket of my flying jacket sleeve
you produced a pinched Dunhill, and
insisted I pull hard, which sent the world
spinning so fast, you saw, or claimed to see,
Jesus's brother James in the plain tracery
of the transcept window - left forefinger raised.
This you recanted, kissing away the vision
like butterflies, while the weathered faceless
saint looked down, hands firm against stone
thigh. Then with a sigh it began to rain,
soft raindrops that melted away before
they dampened the skin, And we stood
before what we came to see, the little
headstone tucked away. And I asked if
this was the pageboy holding your mother's
train. And you nodded, and called all women
'whores'.
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