spring a me bobs
all she wants are jewels,
rings of frogspawn winking
through her blue fingers; for the
pondweed children are racing
home through the buttercups with
the day squelching in their pockets,
the savour of bog mint on their rolled
down socks, and the sniffled sleeves
of their ragamuffin jumpers
unravelling down through all
the days of their childhoods.
take a terrier bite and never let go;
not even to laugh at the naughty bits.
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