Daybreak hung in foggy strips,
twisted Thief knots glimmered
among the finger bones
of grasping trees.
Mizzle had mugged the day.
Grey beards flecked with cuckoo spit
had smuggled summer
under gnarled roots.
Bill formed an Indian gang
to snatch the light back.
Later, parting the scalp of a hedge
we saw the sun
tangled in an old hawthorn.
Meg, the younger sister of Bill,
wanted to shin-up and dislodge it.
There was a chance
we would see her knickers-
we agreed to give her a leg-up.
She hiked up that hawthorn
like a squirrel.  Her skinny limbs
snaked through the spiky twigs
until about half-way to the sun.
Crows capered aloft
to unravel
the coiled ribbons of light
from the snarly brier.
Wood shook, thorns rattled,
twigs loosened their grip
as the sun rose.
Meg whooped and almost fell.
We boys grinned.
Bill looked at us
as if we were crazy.