Hot Sex Sun

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

sunlight-hidden. We

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

above me,

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

and mine.

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.)