black in the days of bank voles
we were thirteen and a bit
trapping bank voles on an upsurge
we’ll make a fur coat we said
skinned the vole skins hung on mum’s line
saltpetre what’s saltpetre never heard of it
neither had the blow flies
or the blows from an enraged mother
of mine own stupidity
at what hung there
a memory sixty years later
of a friend and the nights we went
torches and a bag for our crop of plans
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