On Monday, in Leek Girl’s High,
the History teacher said,
‘I saw you up Mow Cop,
with a lad.’
Across a bowl of washed out sky, suds of clouds float,
coalesce, below the tail of a high flying jet
and brief shadows sweep the Cheshire Plain.
Brown waves of bracken break against the folly walls
and Autumn turns the greens to fire and flame.
My glad, rough boy, his arms around me, pillion tight,
purrs like a Harley, hot smut in my ear.
And I’m alive, molten as a Dali clock.
‘Sorry, not been there, Miss,’ I said
and didn’t add,
I wish I had.
printed in The Poetry of Staffordshire, Offa’s Press