The Bull on the Bowling Green
We carried the bull’s head all summer
like a standard. That brute weight of clay,
rough-rendered though stout-horned –
I’d worked after Picasso in art class.
The end of school; for our passing-out
we camped by the disused rail tracks,
deep-cut, beyond the smear of town’s lights.
We drenched ourselves in cider and sherry
while the bull’s head darkened with us
by the fire. Past midnight I remember
how we blew into town for fast food,
craving salt and the chance of a girl.
That town of sheltered accommodation,
benches around the bowling green;
Pensioner’s leagues, pressed whites,
summers of iced lemonade.
Someone spoke of the rules, the pin,
the need to work with the bias of each bowl.
Who kicked-in the picket gate
I don’t know, although we all danced,
stamped our rough flamenco on the green –
each footfall a cornada; marked
the lawn with such passion; loosed
the humid reek of earth to the night.
* Matthew Howard lives and works near Norwich and is currently taking the Poetry MA with MMU, has had poems in magazines including The North, Magma, Stride and The Rialto.
