Snap Notts: Wilford Village

On Wilford Hill

At the boundary, consecration
meets concrete; the ivy thickens 
and spreads as it pleases.

Behind the lichen-dappled limestone,
each monolith stands
as a reminder of what will happen,

and in white paint, on top of black,
a scratched and faded warning – 
do not tread on the past, keep to the path.


Skimming Stones

Along the track you stoop, collecting stones – 
the flattest, smoothest specimens bulge a pocket,
those that didn’t pass muster discarded
in a desire line behind you.

At the water’s edge you retrieve them,
turn one over between forefinger and thumb,
then hold it aloft like a priest offering communion.
In one swift movement, you pull back

and let go: it skips its way to the centre.
Then you choose one for me, show me how,
hold my fingers. It breaks the surface with a splash, sinks 
like a penny in a well.

Allotments

Glass rooves reflect the fading daylight
of the late winter afternoon.
Gone are the white-haired men in flat caps
turning over the topsoil, burying bulbs.
In long months of cold the bracken has thrived,
and on the edge of night these neatly-plotted patches
seem almost wild. Soon, teenagers will arrive: long-limbed
and awkward in hooded jumpers, clutching open cans, lit cigarettes.
They’ll build a bonfire from that discarded door,
tell ghost stories and forget they aren’t scared of anything.