Where The Hell Have You Been?
Alex Oliver Aug 2023
Big, spattering drops promised rain
and the house felt like a ruined holiday
“It doesn’t know whether to rain or cry” sighed mother
“Said I’d meet mi mate” I call, selectively deaf
to advice and I hop on the bike
Pigeons skirl the roofs in random swirls
and a thrush wolf-whistles
The snicket steepens,
and the crank creaks
as I stand on the pedals
Beyond the summit, a clay-furrowed track
is swayed by cornfields, honked by the dump,
then dives steeply to Collier Brook
Snagged in a bush, a bra salutes the wind
My friend arrives, and grabbing it
he cycles in circles, waving it and whooping
We laugh, not sure what at
The black cinder track pops under our tyres
and we scan for nests or anything interesting…
little suspecting the cuckoo’s call
might be the last one heard around here
A spoil-heap tests our cycling courage
until a rat by the brook is a call to arms
We pelt it with stones, shouting vile threats
“You can get five bob for them” my friend shrieks
as we gaze into the rat-less murk
The rain hammers us up the track to the ruined house
and we hush our approach
There’s a bonfire, with clothes drying on sticks
In his vest, a ‘big lad’ from my school pushes kids about
“Eyup Johnny!” I chirrup, hopping like a spuggy
“R 8 then” he replies, and the mood relaxes
“Seen owt?" he asks; “Nowt” I reply, asking: “av yore?”
“Naow” he shrugs and we dance about pulling faces
“…time is it?” he asks
my mate looks at his cowboy watch
and the gun is cocked
“Awwwwww, s’nearly half-nine”…