The Rakes on the Moor

It's hazy on the horizontal,

back like what we were 25 ago.

 

The form was 6 and out the window,

we were blanket-bound and figuring out.

 

But like a morning after brew, strong and

Sweet, it memory sticks, like gratitude.

 

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It's hazy on the horizontal, back when

we were rakes on the moor, shag-haired

 

crap-carred, clocking up kips and lifts and

part-time mothering like sucking pigs for

 

the butties some habits couldn't take. Back when

we were watch-less with the only solid thing

 

to pass our liquor lips was and tripe and we

were one dropped 'd' away from certainty.

 

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Back when we were made of rubber and

bounced and stretched our necks and

 

necked in stretches in improbable leather

jackets drinking fairy liquid and glass, 

grass laid by the motorway as angels with arty

faces in ringer tees fire-set all over the place.

 

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Did it ever rain back when? Who knows,

we were curious, we were yellow,

 

we were certainly not Burley, we hitched

in from Ashton, Burnley, swam forth in

 

Firths, rattled Potts in Trees, sat on our

Botts with Janes of various sizes, got

 

pissed as sods, shipped in inevitable Barrows,

remained happy, forgetful and Moody.

           

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Some past has passed as tunnel trudge.

Some as fireworks (accidental, not our fault).

 

Some hungry loves. Some wanted salt.

Some's lain bases of good sauce

 

and built foundation, for all of us,

and the boy from the wrong generation.