Meg and the Sun
Daybreak dangled in foggy strips.
Mizzle had mugged the day,
grey-flecked cuckoo spit
smuggled summer under hoary roots.
Bill formed an Indian gang
to snatch the light back.
Later, parting the scalp of a hedge
we saw the sun
tangled in an old hawthorn.
Meg, (Bill’s sister),
wanted to shin-up and dislodge it.
There was a chance
we would see her knickers
so we gave her a leg-up.
Her skinny limbs
snaked through the spiky twigs.
Half-way to the top
the sun cut loose, drifting
beyond her reach.
Meg whooped and almost fell.
We boys grinned as her bare legs
slide down onto our shoulders.
Bill looked at us
as if we were all crazy.
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