Wellies
Some of my parent’s courting in orchards,
dad shimmying like ‘Flash Harry’
through gap in hedge, not for hanky- panky
but mother’s night schooling him in fruit tree husbandry,
thus, by the time they married he was promoted from factory hand
to self- employed ‘Agricultural Contractor’.
Whilst mother shed field work scruffiness
for lady of leisure stilettos, summer coat, dainty dresses,
my father embraced tramp couture in grimy jeans,
shabby sweaters and trade mark wellington boots,
whose ‘slap, slap, slapping’ through orchard’s long grass,
down garden path becoming his signature tune.
Now, in air con cool linen frock,
I slide into wellingtons parked outside back door,
learn to trust their off road sure footedness
as I clamber over garden rockery, traipse around
coppice, wade through wildlife patch,
my wellies ‘slap, slap, slapping’…
