walking on a chalk hillside.
the going is deceptively
treacherous.
oasthouses in the valley
tip their tipsy hats to us,
a village dozes, mistily
picturesque in the distance.
picnic on a scarred slope
between stands of hawthorn.
everything you set down
slides and rolls away,
prompting swearing and
a general loss of temper.
reach out sodden cheese and
tomato sandwiches from
crumpled packs of tin foil,
flasks of tea, thin and lukewarm
with the instant plastic flavour
of a summer day’s outing.
arguments and alliances,
reggae on a cheap transistor
radio swinging on our hips,
sunshine through a speaker,
rescuing the day from a bad mood.
Song is ‘Zimbabwe’ by Bob Marley.
