Mow Cop, Staffordshire

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

 

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