Making Hay
Making Hay
I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown,
everything diverted,
almost deserted;
the traders forgiven
for early closing.
My small-change
pet shop purchase,
fed an empty-rung,
receipt-rolled, till,
But,
an exchange of value:
We talked about skydiving,
John Noakes,
and column-climbing.
Those shaded contractors
blasted sand off pavements,
and I headed home,
only hay-weighted.