Tear-arseing

If you were the first onto the playground
and the sweeping wind had cornered the leaves,
sent empty crisp bags circling like greyhounds
then there was only one game there could be.

We would untoggle our parkas and grab
the bottom corners in each fist then lift
them up our backs, over our heads, a slab
of a sail to catch a westerly drift.

Then tear-arse into the gale’s heart. Head-on!
Even the fastest kids across the yard
lost all force and felt their speed’s erosion.
Then blown down flat decked like a house of cards.

For those who conquered that grey concrete hill
lay the kite ride down. A tail winded thrill.

Geography Lesson Circa 1991

Like penguins on an ice floe we would stand
in line then swallow it down like sharp sand.
There was something about irrigation,
farming, but mostly the irritation

of colouring the coasts blue and green for
the land, my crayons on another tour
of the globe. They scrubbed around the shore line
of Europe, then the whole world by lunchtime.

All neatly reduced down onto A4.
Those pencils racked up air miles by the score.
But such a mindless task unleashed huge floods
on seaside towns where painted houses stood.

With each wild swipe of our brutal hands we
could bring life to deserts, unplug the seas.

Off Piste

Our RE teacher never somehow looked
exactly the way he was supposed to.
Bushy Mexican bandit black moustache.
His winter school ski trips to Austria

Always a sell-out, all-ticket event.
One Christmas – a few years back now – they said
deep in the first snowfall of retirement

he caught an edge at the peak of his stairs
and avalanched down, piled up in the hall.

Black ice can wipe you out at any time.