The Tarzan

The Tarzan

Milk churns wait

on a splintered stand

by the sleepy hedgerow road

We cycle past

spattering sparrow gangs,

dust-bathing in the sun

Past a striding farm-hand,

his sleeves rolled

A grass stem waves as he chews

Feet off the pedals

we sped downhill

Until brake-squeals

dropped the wind from our hair

A poacher’s tracks

in the cuckoo-spat grass

lead over a rocking fence and style

Through reed and rush

to a goose-honked meander 

Where a scarred old willow

proffers a rope

It hangs out of reach;

so with a plimsol scamper

my friend catches its thrumming heft

The bough groans and stoops,

and the frayed rope-end

switters the surface

Fish shimmer. Insects hum.

The water swirls peaty lights

and the light catches

cascading detritus

Gracefully, he’s tuning back

and beckons for me to catch the rope

As he lands I jump on

And a scream of joy bursts my chest

On a dashing rope at last,

the wild boy is free