In which we meet a memory
Wellies call to mind
Eight year old me, ankle-
Deep in sloppy peat and sinking.
No Prince Charming, he, but adept at
Extracting be-boggéd maidens nevertheless.
Scooped up beneath my arms, I
Dropped into adoration as he dropped me onto solid ground,
And watched him go back for the lone welly, its
Yellow rim indignant against the mud.