The yew was spilling over the iron fence
it's roots in the growth unscrewing the black
Hammerite poles from the posts. Holding
true to the bond of our word, we lay aside
our bikes, cast a second glance, and slipped
through the squealing gate into the churchyard.
We knew ourselves officially out of bounds.
Waxy suggested we pretend to be
brass-rubbers, which brought laughter, and jokes,
about being queer, or not, as we made
our way to the shadow of the nave
where we couldn't be seen by Mrs Swiggland.
Waxy had pinched a Dunhill and insisted
we pull hard, which sent the world spinning
so fast that he claimed to see Jesus's
brother James in the tracery of the window -
forefinger raised.
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