Over

A shoulder ride across the grass
The pitch and toss of this broadness
A neck hot from Summer sun
Rough hair under my hands.
They are dressed in whites like angels
Their white shoes tick on the paving
White teeth are made into smiles
Wrapping round something I don't understand
Laughter their currency.
They are big in their deckchairs
Their hands shake my hair.
Sky is their blue upturned cup
With the tiny punctuation marks of swifts
Riding high.
I am riding high on my white charger
I am cloud high
Knowing what birds feel like.
In the pavilion my mother
Makes the secrets of women
Opening sliced white bread
Like the pages of a book
Mashing a dozen eggs with a fork
Filling the urn with a white jug.
Water rushes like it will never run out.
The shout from the square will make her look up
But she is listening to the radio
And there is the smell of sun on formica
Of dust in cupboards
The dry damp of the teatowels
There are words like over.