PUSHING THE MORNING AWAY

when we were young we would fight the night
you see 
the day 
wasnt done 
till we had drank our beer and smoked our stuff
in the
old wooden bus shelter where crows nested in the rotted eaves 
down the 
bottom of the hill weaving out of town
where wild 
fallow fields joined the cement
by a 
sign post that told us blankly and hilariously 
just where 
we were
and every passing taxi cab looked like a police car to us
and we
would go
walking and talking and laughing accelerated and high and mental
into the 
windy night meadows under the dark blue paint swirl of sky
where trees 
like pagan hands rose from the earth in celebrating rows
and we
would sit
on felled trunks or rusted farm machines and drain our tins
always
pushing 
the 
morning 
away

from flickr.com fields of essex