Pop Bottle

Better than pop in fact, the water swigged
from the bottle we took turns to carry
through the sweltering summer down the gardens
(fields and allotments), the lane (‘unadopted’)
of no-puddles in the pot-holes and mother-die
white we pushed through head high at the stile.
It’s still heavy that glass, dimpled at the neck
like frost later, a world on the window
when you pulled back the curtains for school,
still dark behind it, black in fact, despite the snow.

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