Old Fields

by Luke Otley

A mess of moss and broken dead wood

underneath my boots

my jacket, military handmedown

had wire in the hood that made it hang

over my eyes

We tramped on, looking for nothing in particular

A stone’s throw from the road

Seven years ago I was in one of these fields

with an old girlfriend

it was grass stain spring

We stood on hay bales

wrapped in plastic like frozen meat

Marvelling at something so big;

I punched the black plastic

with a tiny boy fist

It was like punching a rhino’s flank

We laughed

God it was easy