#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 9

Fen - 9

Often, when half way through the bottle, I offer
to remember the smell of a wrought iron coke stove
or the thrill of sliding in the wild half turn
on knees across a polished floor, knowing
nostalgia ain't what it used be. Though the dull
cling to that faux critique. And so, to foxgloves
and violets, and the green-black hawthorne,
and the rainclouds gathering at ten to three
as we push Walmsley in to bowl out Sir,
because he's the best we have, and he has the ball.
And I stand between gully, and just about there,
and notice the fox emerge from the trees,
browning to red, and up on his toes,
loping across the yet ungrown field. But
what I really see, is that space behind the hedge
when you revealed yourself to me when I
released the snake belt. And you, with your knickers
round you knees, holding the hem of your skirt
and smiling at the naughtiness of being
an only child. Yes, the sexless world of those
who only wear slacks.