Monday, February 6, 2012
Clouds in the black sky bleached by
Street-lights and car head-lights.
A limp drizzle falls on the pot-holed,
Water drips off blades of grass and
The leaves of bushes
As arms push and legs kick
Through the boundary hedge.
Eight young lads, three carrying bags,
Navigate barbed wire and thorns
And holes and puddles.
Cans and bottles clink in the bags
And break the silence
As the young gang continue in their
Covert mission to the farmer’s
Crumbling old out-house.
After climbing the fence, jumping the dike
And skipping through piles of nettles,
Their fun starts when they reach the hiding place.
Old, empty bottles smash against the far wall,
Smoke rises from freshly lit cigarettes.
After two cans each they’re hyper
And laugh loudly and shout about funny stories.
And it’s all OK because they won’t get caught.