We blundered
onto a country lane
by a NO TRESPASSING sign,
bare legs buttoned
with nettle stings
and raked by thorns,
the green shield bug
a prefect badge
on your white blouse,
the moon
an ironic smile
in the afternoon sky.
Somewhere behind us:
a flattened nest
in a cereal crop
where a pair of otters
had topped and tailed.
Had not.
The summer of couldn’t-care-less,
didn’t know our oats
from our barley,
barley from wheat,
wheat from corn.
Didn’t know we were born.
This poem appears in Simon Armitage’s latest book of poems, “New Cemetery”, published by Faber & Faber
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This article appears in the 23 Oct 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Doom Loop