My cheek was hit and hit:
pelted and bounced on the road.
When it cleared again
something whipped and knowledgeable
and left me there with my chances.
I made a small hard ball
of burning water running from my hand
just as I make this now
out of the melt of the real thing
smarting into its absence.
To be reckoned with, all the same,
those brats of showers.
The way they refused permission,
rattling the classroom window
like a ruler across the knuckles,
the way they were perfect first
and then in no time dirty slush.
Thomas Traherne had orient wheat
for proof and wonder
but for us, it was the sting of hailstones
and the unstingable hands of Eddie Diamond
foraging in the nettles.
Nipple and hive, bite-lumps,
small acorns of the almost pleasurable
intimated and disallowed
when the shower ended
and everything said wait.
For what? For forty years
to say there, there’s where
to taste and test it:
as the light opens in silence
and a car with wipers going still
lays perfect tracks in the slush.
When I hoked there, I would find
An acorn and a rusted bolt.
If I lifted my eyes, a factory chimney
And a dormant mountain.
If I listened, an engine shunting
And a trotting horse.
Is it any wonder when I thought
I would have second thoughts?
When they spoke of the prudent squirrel’s hoard
It shone like gifts at a nativity.
When they spoke of the mammon of iniquity
The coins in my pocket reddened like stove-lids.
Two buckets were easier carried than one.
I grew up in between.
My left hand placed the standard iron weight.
My right tilted a last grain in the balance.
Baronies, parishes met where I was born.
When I stood on the central stepping-stone
I was the last earl on horseback in midstream
Still parleying, in earshot of his kernes.