A hot sex sun breaks the
cloud seal sat for six weeks
over the shivering fields,
the autumn’s first real heat,
like a lover touched after
months of solitary sleep.
And it comes,
smothering rainsoak-sweat rich soil…
dripping down nowhere
middle branches into
dead end dips and
piddling sultry streams,
the cool, puddled dividers of gorse and
horseshoe stampèd mud paths
we trample our way to the middle
for no one but us to see
deep in the woods, deep towards me,
dingy pathways and curious cuts
wilting in the hot sex sun
all of fourteen degrees, burning
fourteen years me and him at forty-two
we two, clinging together like bark and moss.
The perfect clearing blows in
on a winter wind, a dark nook
spread our ceremony’s rug wool
to sheath us from broken leaves
and dropped branches – the discarded
skins and skeletons of trees.
He hangs his clothing on birch twigs
below dead old mushroom brackets
I hang my hungry young skin
on the chill, the hot sex sun now cowering
behind the bovine hillscape
stretching from Jurassic bay,
and couching us in shadows.
I brought him there to have me.
He brought me there to break.
Bashing inside me, like grinding
coriander seeds on my prostate, I finally see…
why he brought that collapsible spade
and the rucksack filled with cables,
and the cloth born to my mouth
and the sleep that then ensues,
fading me from my pleading
dissolving me into the hot sex sun.
Moons come and they come,
the woodland floor turns to sludge
and my body to molten butter gold
six feet into the kingdom of badgers
and ghosts. I would sing to the worms
for freedom but for my broken windpipe,
I should liberty dance for the foxes
but for the clothing line noose
around my limbs. I would rise
but for the oak-root chains and
the weight of the earth
and the storm-fallen tree
covering and marking the spot,
X is for me, concealed in eternal end.
And no search parties, no dogs,
no sirens nor lights nor officers will come,
just endless, endless nights.
Years pass, a hot sex sun dribbles anew
through the treetops to the Spring nests
and squirrel holes below.
A buzzard swoops down on fresh sparrow eggs
sweating in the light. Beak full
he drops one from his talons
at the sound of footsteps in
the woodland, the very same man
with another child, soon to be his bedfellow
The egg falls, smashing on my tumbled tree tomb,
And coagulates slowly. Slowly, in the heat
of another hot sex sun.
(First published in Lunar Poetry, 2015.)