Me mate strolls in says, ‘They pack thee fannies over’t pond’
he’s ever a husky if ever he were a dog
he whines and howls like one
i’m a fox cub already battle worn
hounded down by men in flatcaps from’t conservative club (me da’s mates)
‘What ya on about now?’ I glare ‘im down
‘Woman on tele asked where ‘er fanny pack was!’
‘Bumbag’ me da said over’t newspaper
‘Bumbag t’ you too!’ me mate replied, candy fresh smile broadened his cheeks
‘Now you little…’ me da started, the newspaper all rustle and bustle in his huge paws
‘Ya git on outta ‘ere ‘fore I gi’e ya mother a reason…’
He needn’t finish that sentence
me mate ran out howling as he meant to prowl
the street wouldn’t ‘old him
ever a terrier in his blood
ran up the ginnel up to the woods
he ‘ad scent on a fox
trailed it to our den under a dense canopy of trees and bushes
he pushed a glacier mint into his maw
and I ran in breathless after ‘im
‘A shouldn’t’ve called ya da a Bumbag.’
”E don’t care. Jus’ wanted us out of ‘is ‘air’
we sat in’t den and scribbled our names in dirt with twigs
when paper mill siren blew it’s horn
we ‘unkered down as if it were’t blitz
mud on us faces
films we’d seen on little screens played in our ‘eads
anyone passing by was soldiers not merely men
we ‘ushed ourselves with sweets and glacier mints
we felt alive, animal, primal
a fox’s den, territorial
we didn’t know war
just the mood of cubs hidin’
wild eyes ablaze
licked clean by mums
a wilderness still alight in us.