Each morning the Roberts radio would chortle
along to Wogan, as the grass turned as white
as the fabric taut across the speaker. Until
we grew almost tired of this most un-English
summer. And just at the point when we almost
knew, what Sebastian was doing with those horses,
we went back to school to find the early drop
of acorns dry as finger nails and thin
they wobbled in the cup. And the hard field
that cut knees as sharp as tarmac, and bore
no moulded stud.
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