You almost trip on another
tipped mound of grey sand
Turned soil reverts to fulvid
shades as our strides drop
us down to a black expanse
of foul-water ditches – thick
as if cooled off tarmacadam
& stinking [once kicked up]
A retreat to my childhood &
set aside meadows [framed
by dead streams – ore-stain
& pollutant slicks – no fish]
as July sun seared a stench
without equal – we could be
smelt at 100 yards [told off
we stood peeling outdoors
to shake off boots & scabs
into pleshes of dirt & blood]
There would follow bickers
of hungry voices – boys at it
with daytime treaties forgot
when hauled from outdoors
[our at-the-end-of-my-tether
mother cannot stomach us
Why four boys – Jonathan –
not a girl – me #3 a mishap]
Best left buried – eh – Mike?
Stay keen – about molehills