Snaith’s Field – second draft

Tag-team boys write themselves

Large on impossible flyovers, claiming

Names slapsimple, direct as punches,

All for kicks, feral afternoons,

Late sun and dares taken

Filling out their scrawny chests

Like the smell of hot wood

inside the potting shed.

Spray-cans, brotherhoods bloom

Here where the wildflowers scribble

Over the edges and it is observed

But never dissected, hedgehog

Carcasses poked with sticks.

Not really dressed for wing-walking,

The girls wait for them at Snaith’s Field

Wrapping their slouches round swing chains,

Editorial spread for Diamond White,

Accessories by Lambert & Butler.

They never attempt a perfect dismount

From the still top edge of the upward arc,

Not even when they are alone. Apart

From anything, bodies are harder to look at

When in motion. And to fall, to fall, no, no…

The others won’t hold the sheet tight for you,

They will only watch, then cut their eyes away.

A decade ago, before they were female,

They were bodies, bodies running

Through this same field, but spangled

With daisies, hundred of push-pop petals

As if summer is a snow-globe

And they are the glitter, forever

Running towards the far side, the whole body

A reaching hand so open, so infallible

Of course it grasps the finish tape

With everything else, as much blue sky

As you can eat, and this field, this field

As big as a field ever was, filled

With an eternal ovation of daisies.

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